❤️ THE PRICE OF PLEASURE ( Xdinary Heroes )
❤️ THE PRICE OF PLEASURE ( xdinary heroes )
❛ When Jiseok and Jooyeon break your strict rule, you push the boundaries of your control and desire, navigating a thrilling interplay of discipline and pleasure as you mold their eager submission to your will.
𝐤𝐰𝐚𝐤 𝐣𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 + female reader + 𝐥𝐞𝐞 𝐣𝐨𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐨𝐧 ೯ ( 𝐨𝐧𝐞-𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭 )
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 8.0k 𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞: 32 mins
꒰ 💌 ꒱ ミ Yet another amazing request made by the wonderful 🍀 Anon! This is probably the filthiest, things I've ever written. But I also feel like it's my absolute favorite! I hope you guys enjoy, reblogs and feedback are much appreciated! Requests are currently open! ── ( 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 )
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: MDNI, oral (male and female receiving), brief m x m action, voyeurism, Jooyeon is a major brat, Jooyeon and Gaon are both submissive, Reader is a control-obsessed dom, she's also soft sometimes, Gaon gets pegged, handjob, begging, crying (not really, but kinda), lots and lots of teasing, let me know if I missed anything!
( 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 ) ( 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 & 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ) ( 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ) ( 𝐭𝐢𝐩 𝐣𝐚𝐫 )
The familiar, rhythmic thud of your shoes hitting the floor echoed softly through the quiet apartment as you kicked them off, the sound oddly amplified in the stillness. A slight frown tugged at your lips, a whisper of confusion settling in as you took in the unexpected silence. Your home, usually alive with the vibrant energy of your boyfriends, was eerily calm, devoid of the usual symphony of laughter and banter that often greeted your return. It was odd, unsettling even, that this quiet was your welcome, especially since their shoes were already neatly lined by the door—a sign that they were home, yet nowhere to be seen.
With a gentle shrug, you slipped off your light jacket, the fabric brushing softly against your skin as you hung it on the coat rack. Your oversized work bag followed, its weight slipping from your shoulder with a familiar relief. As you stood there, the quiet pressing in around you, suspicion began to stir, a soft unease gnawing at the edges of your thoughts. Your gaze swept the room, searching for any sign of your lovers' presence, but the usual chaos they brought with them was conspicuously absent. The stillness felt like a lull before a storm, the kind of silence that Jiseok and Jooyeon could never maintain for long, especially when they were together, plotting their next mischievous escapade.
Faintly, like a whisper in the quiet, you caught the delicate sound of shuffling emanating from within your bedroom. The noise was subtle, almost hesitant, yet it pierced through the silence with a presence that demanded attention. Your eyes narrowed, suspicion flaring as you took in the unusual sight of your closed bedroom door—a rare occurrence in the sanctuary of your home. With a quiet resolve, you made your way toward the source of the sound, each step deliberate and silent as if the stillness of the apartment itself held its breath.
As you reached the door, your hand hesitated for the briefest moment before gently pushing it open. The scene that greeted you was one of raw, unapologetic intimacy, an almost obscene tableau that instantly commanded your full attention. There, perched at the edge of your shared bed, was Jooyeon, his slender frame glistening with a sheen of sweat. His head was thrown back in a wild surrender to pleasure, long strands of hair clinging to his damp, flushed skin, creating an image of untamed beauty. His face, scrunched up in ecstasy, betrayed the intense sensations coursing through him, every muscle in his body taut with the effort of holding on to the bliss that threatened to consume him.
Kneeling between Jooyeon’s trembling legs was Jiseok, his back turned to you, though the rhythmic bobbing of his head left no doubt about the intimate service he was providing. The sight of them together, lost in their own world of pleasure, was a potent mix of annoyance and arousal, each emotion vying for dominance within you. The lewd, wet sounds that filled the air only intensified the storm brewing inside, sending an intoxicating rush of heat through your veins. It was a moment suspended in time, one that held you captive, torn between the urge to interrupt and the desire to watch their passion unfold.
Deciding not to disturb their passionate moment, you chose instead to lean casually against the doorframe, arms crossed over your chest. There was a certain thrill in observing them unnoticed, your gaze sharp and unyielding as it fixed upon the scene unfolding before you. Curiosity sparked within, urging you to see just how long it would take for them to sense the weight of your stare, to feel the intensity of your presence as you watched, silent and unmoving.
Yet, as the seconds ticked by, that initial thrill began to sour, replaced by a simmering annoyance that crept into your chest. The longer you stood there, the more your irritation grew, gnawing at the edges of your patience. You had set rules for a reason—clear, firm boundaries that all of you had agreed upon, understanding the importance of maintaining balance within your dynamic. One of those rules was simple, yet essential: neither of them was allowed to indulge in pleasure without your explicit permission, particularly when you had made your desires known. You had been crystal clear, even taking the time to send a message in the group chat before leaving work, outlining exactly how you wanted them.
But as you stood there, a sudden realization struck you with infuriating clarity. Technically, they weren’t breaking any rules, and the thought sent a fresh wave of irritation coursing through you. You could vividly recall the exact phrasing you had used: "Neither of you can give yourselves pleasure without my explicit permission, especially if I tell you that I want you beforehand." The loophole they had exploited now seemed glaringly obvious, and a bitter scoff nearly escaped your lips. They weren't seeking pleasure from themselves but from each other—a clever, if maddening, twist on your words.
The knowledge that they had found a way around your rule, skirting the edges of defiance while technically staying within the bounds you had set, only fueled your growing annoyance. Yet, beneath that annoyance, there was a grudging admiration for their audacity, for the way they had turned your own rule against you. It was a delicate dance of power and submission, one that you were determined to reclaim control over, even as you continued to watch, the silence between you heavy with unspoken tension.
As if finally attuned to the simmering tension in the room, Jooyeon’s pleasure-clouded eyes fluttered open, locking onto your unyielding stare. For a brief moment, his gaze remained unfocused, lost in the haze of the moment, but then recognition dawned, widening his eyes in a sudden panic. In a frantic rush, he pushed Jiseok away, his movements clumsy with urgency. Jiseok, still caught in the throes of their intimacy, mumbled something unintelligible, his voice muffled by the lingering taste of Jooyeon's desire. It wasn’t until he followed Jooyeon’s gaze that the gravity of the situation fully hit him. His own eyes went wide, a deep flush of anxiety spreading across his face, the earlier confidence replaced by a palpable unease.
Despite the tumultuous swirl of emotions churning within you, you maintained a veneer of calm as you slowly pushed yourself off the doorframe. Your movements were deliberate, calculated, as you made your way to a plush chair nestled in the furthest corner of the room. The sharp edge in your voice betrayed the storm beneath your composed exterior as you spoke, “Don’t let me interrupt your fun,” you said, the words slicing through the thick silence like a blade.
Settling into the chair with an elegance that belied the intensity of the moment, you crossed one leg over the other, the smooth motion a stark contrast to the charged atmosphere. Your fingers intertwined with a practiced grace, resting casually on your lap, though there was nothing casual about the undercurrent of displeasure in your tone. "Clearly, I’m not needed here," you continued, the bitterness in your words hanging in the air like a challenge, daring them to refute it. The room seemed to shrink under the weight of your presence, the earlier intimacy now overshadowed by the unspoken tension that filled the space between you.
While Jiseok, ever the more submissive of the two, began to pathetically crawl across the floor toward you, his movements were slow and deliberate, as if each inch he gained was a testament to his regret. When he finally reached you, he positioned himself on his knees, his arms wrapping around your legs in a desperate embrace. His head bowed low, resting against your lap, he mumbled a stream of breathless apologies, each word laced with a whine that betrayed his mounting anxiety. His voice was a soft, trembling plea for forgiveness, and though his presence was tangible, your gaze remained fixed elsewhere.
Your attention was locked on Jooyeon, whose unwavering stare met yours with a defiant glint. His eyes, dark and challenging, held none of the remorse that Jiseok so readily displayed. Instead, there was a boldness in his gaze, a spark of rebellion that was all too familiar. It wasn’t unexpected—Jooyeon had always possessed an uncanny ability to push your limits, a relentless determination to test your patience at every turn. The smirk tugging at the corner of his lips was a silent taunt, an invitation to the game he so loved to play.
He knew you too well, knew precisely which buttons to press and when to press them. It was a dance you had performed countless times before, each step choreographed with an intimacy that came from understanding the deepest corners of each other's minds. Yet, despite knowing how the game would play out, despite the simmering frustration that he always managed to evoke within you, there was a part of you that couldn't help but admire his audacity. It was infuriating, maddening even, but there was also something intoxicating about the way he challenged you, the way he thrived on eliciting a reaction.
Jooyeon's defiance was a fire that refused to be extinguished, a flame that burned with a heat that could either consume or ignite something within you. And as you stared into his eyes, a silent battle waging between the two of you, the familiar thrill of the challenge began to stir within your chest, mingling with the annoyance that his stubbornness always managed to evoke. It was a complex dance of power and submission, one that neither of you were willing to lose.
“Please,” Jiseok’s voice quivered with desperation, his fingers curling around the hem of your shirt as if clinging to a lifeline. His plea was laced with a raw vulnerability, an attempt to capture your attention, to divert your gaze from the other boy who remained rooted in defiant stillness. For a long moment, you ignored him, your eyes fixed on Jooyeon, who hadn't moved an inch. But eventually, the pitiful weight of Jiseok’s words pulled you down to him, your gaze dropping to meet his flushed, guilt-ridden face. His cheeks were stained a deep crimson, the color of shame, and his eyes glistened with regret that bordered on desperation.
“I told Jooyeon it wasn’t a good idea, but he still made me do it,” Jiseok murmured, his voice wavering as he sought to absolve himself, to shift the blame onto the unyielding figure across the room. His words, however, were met with a sharp scoff from Jooyeon, who rolled his eyes with a mixture of disdain and amusement. The smirk that played on his lips was almost cruel in its satisfaction as he cut through Jiseok’s attempt at innocence with biting clarity.
“Don’t act all innocent, Ji. You weren’t too hard to convince,” Jooyeon’s voice dripped with mocking amusement, the casual dismissal of Jiseok’s plea only deepening the tension in the room. Your eyes narrowed, fixing on Jiseok, who recoiled slightly under your scrutinizing gaze. The groveling man at your feet cast a quick, venomous glare in Jooyeon’s direction before returning his pleading eyes to you, a silent appeal for mercy.
The sight of them, one defiant and the other groveling, was almost too much to bear. You could almost laugh at the absurdity of it all—the way Jiseok's desperate attempts to escape blame were so easily dismantled by Jooyeon’s unrelenting honesty. Yet, you held back, determined to maintain your composure. With a deliberate, gentle firmness, you pushed Jiseok away, his fingers slipping from your shirt as you created a space between your bodies. The movement was final, a quiet assertion of your control, a reminder that you would not be swayed by pitiful apologies or manipulative tactics.
“Did you not hear what I just said?” Your voice cut through the tension like a blade, sharp and unwavering. You raised an eyebrow, your gaze flickering between the two men, each of them a stark contrast to the other in their response. Jooyeon, ever the defiant one, met your challenge with a smirk that played at the corners of his lips. He shifted his weight, leaning back onto his elbows with a casual arrogance, his eyes drifting lazily toward Jiseok as if the entire situation were nothing more than an amusing game.
Jiseok, in stark contrast, remained at your feet, his frown deepening as he absorbed the weight of your words. The air between you all was thick with unspoken tension, the power dynamic shifting and settling as you held their gazes, one after the other. Jooyeon’s smirk widened, his expression one of almost mocking confidence as he finally broke the silence, his voice laced with a taunting edge.
You let the silence hang for a beat, your patience wearing thin. “Don’t let me interrupt your fun,” you added, the words laced with a subtle yet unmistakable edge. Your gaze remained steady, shifting between them, watching their reactions with a mixture of frustration and control. The defiance in Jooyeon’s posture only seemed to grow stronger under your scrutiny, while Jiseok’s frown deepened, his eyes flickering with unease.
The atmosphere was thick with unspoken tension, each of you aware of the delicate balance of power at play. Your words, though calmly spoken, carried an undercurrent of authority that left no room for misinterpretation.
Jiseok resumed his position at your feet, his fingers trembling slightly as they fisted the hem of your shirt once more. His bottom lip jutted out in a desperate pout, the very picture of contrition. As you gazed down at him, his remorse was palpable, almost tangible in the way his eyes pleaded for forgiveness. The sight of him, so earnestly regretful, caused something within you to soften, a crack in the armor of your stern resolve.
Yet, you knew better than to let that moment of tenderness sway your judgment. Judging by the way Jooyeon had reacted to your earlier command to continue with his naughty activities, you understood that simply ordering them to proceed wouldn’t serve as the true punishment Jooyeon needed. He thrived on defiance, on pushing boundaries, and you were all too aware that he wouldn’t be so easily subdued.
With a gentle sigh, you leaned back into your seat, allowing your expression to shift from stern to sympathetic as your focus returned to the older boy at your feet. The transformation was subtle yet deliberate, a calculated move meant to comfort Jiseok, whose guilt was as evident as the tears brimming in his eyes. Your index finger curled beneath his chin, tilting his face upward to meet your gaze. The touch was soft, almost tender, and your thumb traced the contour of his chin with a gentleness that belied the authority you wielded.
“Do you feel guilty, Ji?” you cooed, your voice a soothing balm against the tension that still lingered in the air.
His response was immediate, his head nodding with such fervor that it almost seemed frantic. “So, so sorry!” he gasped, his voice a breathless plea, and you could see the sliver of hope flickering in his eyes at your sudden change in demeanor.
The shift in your tone and touch was deliberate, designed to draw him closer, to offer him a glimpse of redemption. The power dynamic was clear, but in this moment, it was laced with a tenderness that made Jiseok’s heart swell with a desperate need to earn back your favor. And as you looked into his eyes, you could see that your calculated change in approach had taken its desired effect, planting the seed of hope within him while still maintaining the control you so deftly wielded.
“Hmmm,” you murmur thoughtfully, your voice a soft, velvety purr as you release Jiseok’s face from your gentle hold. Your fingers linger for a moment, caressing his skin with a lingering warmth that belied the sternness in your gaze. “If you show me just how sorry you are—by pleasuring me properly, eating me with the devotion I deserve—I might just consider showing you a bit of mercy. Does that sound fair, baby?”
Jiseok’s eyes widened, a glimmer of eager anticipation flashing in their depths. His excitement is almost palpable as he nods vigorously, his expression one of hopeful desperation. Without hesitation, he begins his task, his hands trembling slightly as he grips the waistband of your pants and underwear. With your assistance, he pulls the fabric down to your ankles, his movements urgent and precise.
Once you’ve kicked off the restrictive garments, a sigh escapes your lips, a sound of both relief and satisfaction. You stretch out your legs, opening them with a deliberate and inviting ease, presenting yourself to your eager lover. The warm glow of the nightstand lamps casts a golden sheen over your exposed core, highlighting the glistening wetness that betrays your arousal. The soft light creates a shimmering effect, making your desire all the more visible and enticing.
You catch the subtle, involuntary swallow that ripples through Jooyeon’s throat as he watches the scene unfold, his gaze fixed intently on the sight before him. His reaction is immediate, a clear indication of the effect the display has on him. The moment Jiseok’s eyes fall upon your aroused core, he emits a low, reverent moan, the sound reverberating with a mixture of lust and devotion. The interplay of your body’s response and Jiseok’s eager obedience creates a charged atmosphere, one that only serves to heighten the tension and excitement in the room.
Jiseok didn’t hesitate for a moment, his lips moving with an urgent, fervent need as he traced a path of wet, eager kisses up your inner thighs. Each kiss was imbued with a desperate longing, a tactile promise of the pleasure that awaited. The sensation of his lips against your sensitive skin sent a thrilling jolt of anticipation straight into your abdomen, making your heartbeat quicken with fervor.
When his lips finally reached your aching core, he paused for a brief, tantalizing moment, inhaling the intoxicating, familiar scent of your arousal. The air seemed to crackle with charged energy as he savored the moment, his breath warm and teasing against your skin. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he pressed a soft, reverent kiss onto your sensitive folds. The simple, yet profound contact elicited a shuddered gasp from you, a sound that seemed to resonate deeply within him, filling him with a sense of satisfaction and boldness.
Spurred on by your reaction, Jiseok’s tongue emerged, expertly gliding between your folds with a practiced, skilled touch. The sensation was electric, a wave of intense pleasure that made your fingers instinctively curl into his hair, gripping him tightly. The pressure of your touch was a firm reminder of who held the reins, a detail that elicited a delicious, vibrating moan from Jiseok. The sound reverberated through your core, amplifying the pleasure and creating a symphony of sensations that left you craving more.
Having Jiseok in this submissive, eager state was pure bliss—his compliance and desperation to please made every moment feel like a heavenly indulgence. His willingness to cater to your desires, his every action steeped in devotion and need, transformed the experience into something both transcendent and intimately fulfilling.
After a few moments of surrendering to the intoxicating pleasure Jiseok’s exquisite mouth was bestowing upon you, you reluctantly shifted your gaze toward your other, more rebellious lover. The sight that met your eyes was both captivating and gratifying—Jooyeon, breathless and visibly disheveled, was gripping the bedsheets with such intensity that his knuckles had turned a stark, ghostly white. The raw desperation etched on his face sent a shiver of dark satisfaction coursing through your veins.
You allowed a smirk to curl at the corners of your lips, a reflection of the wicked pleasure you took in his discomfiture. The dark gleam in your eyes only seemed to heighten his arousal, and you could see the effect it had on him. The twitch of his length was unmistakable, a physical testament to the intense frustration and yearning that had been stoked by your presence and actions.
It dawned on you then that his own pleasure had been sharply interrupted by your control, leaving him in a state of aching need. The realization brought a dark, amused chuckle to your lips, a sound that was both cruel and deeply satisfying. The thought that his own arousal was teetering on the edge of painful necessity was a delicious detail you couldn’t help but relish. Each twitch and shudder of his body was a testament to your dominance, a reminder of just how effectively you could manipulate and captivate him.
A surprising jolt of pleasure suddenly pulls your focus away from Jooyeon, drawing your attention back to Jiseok. A moan escapes your lips, filled with both surprise and delight, as you become acutely aware of his expert touch. Jiseok’s fingertips, deft and determined, trace gentle circles over your sensitive nub, while his tongue thrusts rhythmically in and out of your sopping core. His eyes, locked onto your face, gleam with a quiet pride, a testament to his satisfaction in his performance.
Unable to contain your tender response, you smile gently at him, your expression softening with affection. You move the hand that had been resting in his hair to cup his cheek, your thumb caressing him with a tenderness that contrasts the intensity of the moment. At your touch, Jiseok leans into your hand, his body vibrating with a contented hum that resonates through your core. The sensation of his submission and his willingness to please you fills your heart with an overwhelming, indescribable affection.
Despite his habitual mischief, Jiseok was always remarkably attentive when it mattered most. The realization of his devotion intensifies with each stroke of his tongue against the sensitive spot within you, pushing you to a new peak of pleasure. The thought of his unwavering care, despite his playful nature, amplifies your desire. As his tongue finds that sweet, sensitive spot once more, another moan escapes you, and you tighten your grip on his hair, urging him deeper into your pleasure. The combination of his devoted touch and your commanding presence creates a profound sense of intimacy and connection, one that transcends the physical and speaks to the core of your bond.
Jooyeon’s voice abruptly sliced through the bubble of pleasure enveloping you, his tone cracking with a desperate need that belied his attempt at nonchalance. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his eyes fixed on the arch of your back, each shudder of pleasure that coursed through you a vivid display of your intense enjoyment. He clutched the sheets beneath him with a fierce grip, as if they were a lifeline holding him in place. You couldn’t help but marvel at his endurance, the way he had resisted the urge to touch himself despite the tormenting frustration. It was a feat that both intrigued and impressed you, though you had no intention of voicing your admiration.
Your gaze flickered toward him, though the image before you was slightly blurred by the overwhelming bliss Jiseok was bestowing upon you. “I’m sorry,” Jooyeon repeated, his voice trembling with raw desperation. This time, the veneer of composure was gone, stripped away by the intensity of his need. As you rolled your hips against Jiseok’s face, using his hair to keep him securely in place, Jooyeon’s eyes grew darker, reflecting a potent mix of longing and frustration.
Jiseok, seemingly lost in the haze of his own desire, groaned deeply into your core, the sound vibrating through you and sending another wave of ecstatic pleasure that left you gasping for breath. His focus remained fixed on you, almost as if Jooyeon’s presence had faded into the background of his single-minded devotion.
When you remained silent in response to Jooyeon’s repeated apologies, he insisted with a fervent plea, “I won’t do it again, I promise.” The desperation in his voice was palpable, the feeling of exclusion starting to gnaw at him just as you had intended. The sight of him, so vulnerable and yearning, was a stark contrast to the pleasure Jiseok continued to deliver, adding another layer of intense satisfaction to the scene unfolding before you.
“No,” you pant, your breath coming in shallow, ragged bursts as you lick your lips, the taste of desire lingering on your tongue. Your senses are acutely tuned to the sensations enveloping you; you can feel the sweat that has formed a slick sheen over your body, glistening almost sensually under the soft, amber glow of the nightstand lamps. These lamps cast a warm, inviting light across the otherwise darkened expanse of your bedroom, creating an intimate cocoon that frames the scene with a seductive allure.
Your gaze remains fixed on Jooyeon’s eyes, now clouded with a mixture of longing and frustration. He pants softly, his breaths uneven as he watches the unfolding scene with an almost entranced expression. As you teeter on the precipice of climax, the tightening in your lower abdomen grows almost unbearable. “It’s too late to apologize now, Joo,” you manage to murmur through your heightened pleasure, your voice quivering with the effort to maintain control.
A sharp inhale escapes you as Jiseok’s fingers dig into your thighs, his nails pressing into your soft skin with a possessive grip meant to keep you firmly in place. Momentarily distracted by the intensity of his touch, you reach for his wrists with both hands, holding them with a firm grip as you cast him a warning glare. He should know better than to assume any form of control at this moment; not to mention, you rarely enjoyed the sensation of being confined.
Jiseok’s eyes flicker with a silent apology, a wordless acknowledgment of your unspoken command. Once you see the understanding in his gaze, you release his wrists, allowing your hands to return to his hair. With renewed focus, you guide him back to your core, trapping his head in a vice of pleasure. The intimate connection between you both is palpable, a dance of control and surrender that continues to heighten the ecstasy of the moment.
Your gaze shifted once more, catching Jooyeon leaning forward with renewed intensity, his posture straightening in a futile attempt to catch a better glimpse of your aching core as it lay exposed over Jiseok’s head. A sharp, almost cruel snort escaped you, the sound dripping with mockery. “You should have taken a page from your older brother’s book when you had the chance,” you taunted, your voice edged with a playful disdain as you observed Jooyeon’s sulking reaction to your words. “Now, you’ll have to wait until he’s finished eating his dinner before I deal with you.”
As another moan erupted from your lips—a primal, guttural sound that hung heavily in the air—you began to assert control over the rhythm, your thighs clenching around Jiseok’s head with a firm, possessive grip. Your hips moved with a desperate, relentless pace, rolling back and forth with an urgent, almost frenzied rhythm. The vibrations of Jiseok’s own moans and groans reverberated through you, amplifying the waves of pleasure crashing over you.
With a final, shuddering groan that punctuated your climax, you allowed the intense waves of euphoria to envelop you. Slowly, you adjusted the pace, easing into a more languid rhythm as you rode out the aftershocks of your orgasm. Eventually, you released Jiseok from your iron grip, his head slipping free from between your thighs.
He didn’t retreat immediately. Instead, he lingered, his lips pressing a firm yet tender kiss onto your highly sensitive core, which elicited a slight flinch from you. Despite the delicate sensation, you managed a tired smile in response, your breath coming in heavy, ragged bursts as you leaned back into your seat, savoring the residual echoes of your pleasure.
The sound of Jooyeon’s moans, mingled with the sight of his desperate gaze, registered in the periphery of your consciousness as you briefly closed your eyes. You took a moment to bask in the relief that Jiseok, ever the attentive lover, had provided to your once-aching arousal. The pleasure had been both intense and satisfying, a balm to the tension that had built up throughout your demanding day at work.
Yet, you didn’t let yourself linger in this moment of indulgence for too long. The awareness of what needed to be done next urged you to refocus. Once your breathing had steadied, your eyes fluttered open, and you straightened up, positioning yourself to face your lovers with renewed determination.
Jiseok remained on the floor before you, now seated with a look of serene satisfaction on his face. He was diligently engaged in cleaning your sticky arousal from his face, his tongue working with practiced precision. The sight of his dedication only heightened your sense of control and satisfaction.
Across the room, Jooyeon was a study in frustrated yearning. His thighs rubbed together in a subtle, almost desperate search for friction, his eyes fixed on you with a mixture of envy and longing. The expression on his face was almost palpable, an unspoken plea for attention. You couldn't help but let out a dark, amused laugh at the contrast between Jiseok’s contented diligence and Jooyeon’s evident jealousy. The dynamic between the two was both intoxicating and thrilling, adding another layer of complexity to the scene before you.
You steadied yourself, carefully concealing the tremor in your legs from the recent climax, unwilling to let even a hint of vulnerability disrupt the commanding presence you needed to maintain. The image you projected was crucial for the next phase of your plan, one that was designed to bring your bratty, rebellious lover, Jooyeon, to his knees in submission—just as you intended. While Jooyeon had mastered the art of pushing your buttons, you, too, had accumulated a repertoire of strategies throughout your time with both him and Jiseok.
A smirk curled at the corners of your lips as this thought crossed your mind, a glimmer of mischief dancing in your eyes. You moved with deliberate grace, passing by Jiseok, who continued his focused task with a look of serene satisfaction. Your path led directly to the nightstand on your side of the expansive bed, where a carefully curated collection of sensual toys awaited. The gleam of anticipation in your gaze reflected off the polished surface of the nightstand as you approached, each item meticulously arranged to cater to your desires.
The nightstand’s contents were a testament to your intricate understanding of pleasure and control, each piece chosen to further your goals of domination and indulgence. As you reached for the drawer, the soft click of its opening echoed through the room, adding a layer of expectation to the already charged atmosphere.
You could feel their gazes burning into your skin, each pair of eyes following your every movement with a palpable intensity. Yet, you remained unperturbed, your focus entirely on the task at hand. With deliberate precision, you retrieved the harnesses of your strap, your fingers moving with practiced ease. The ritual of preparation was almost meditative, each action underscoring your dominance and control.
Once the harness was secured in place, you methodically sifted through your collection before finding what you were looking for: Jiseok's favorite dildo. The bright blue silicone toy, vivid and unmistakable, emerged from the drawer. The sight of it elicited a giddy gasp from Jiseok, a sound that was quickly followed by Jooyeon’s mocking snort. The derisive noise only served to widen your smirk, a silent promise of what was to come. You knew Jooyeon’s bravado would soon crumble, but you kept this insight to yourself, letting the anticipation build.
With practiced movements, you secured the toy onto the strap, the click of the mechanism echoing softly in the room. You retrieved a half-empty bottle of lube and tossed it onto the bed with a casual flick of your wrist. Amidst the array of items, you unearthed two pairs of handcuffs from the very bottom of the drawer, a rarely used accessory that now seemed perfectly suited for your purpose. You held them up with a faint smirk, their cold metal glinting under the dim light.
A voice, dazed with anticipation, broke the charged silence. “Are you tying me up?” Jiseok’s voice was closer than before, and you turned to see him resting on the bed behind Jooyeon, his eyes alight with excitement. You chuckled softly at the eagerness evident in his expression, shaking your head as you retrieved a black blindfold from the drawer. The soft rustle of fabric was the only sound as you closed the drawer, tossing the handcuffs and blindfold onto the bed with casual grace.
“Our dear Joo hasn’t been behaving well, remember?” Your voice was a silk thread of menace woven with amusement. Jiseok’s eyes widened as the implications of your words sank in, his gaze shifting to meet Jooyeon’s. Despite the undercurrent of anxiety, there was an undeniable spark of thrill in Jooyeon’s eyes, a fleeting but telling sign of the complex mix of emotions stirring within him.
After taking a final inventory of the items you had meticulously prepared, you positioned yourself before Jooyeon. The room was thick with anticipation as you stood with an air of authority, your hands confidently resting on your hips. The strap, securely fastened and perfectly aligned, hovered enticingly at the level of Jooyeon’s mouth.
Jooyeon gazed up at you, a picture of almost vulnerable apprehension. His eyes, though defiant, betrayed a flicker of unease as they tracked the motion of your strap. Behind him, Jiseok’s head emerged, his eyes wide with a mixture of eagerness and longing, reflecting the soft glow of the room’s lighting.
When Jooyeon remained motionless and silent, you couldn’t suppress a playful smirk. You raised an eyebrow in mock surprise, the gesture both questioning and taunting. “Oh, Joo,” you chided with a tone dripping in feigned disapproval. You shook your head lightly, the movement deliberate and filled with a touch of disappointment. “Are you really going to make me do all the work? I thought you were sorry.”
Your words were laced with clear mockery, and the way Jooyeon’s eyes narrowed subtly in response confirmed that he had picked up on your teasing. The room's atmosphere was charged with the tension of your challenge, each breath and glance heightening the sense of anticipation and control.
Given Jooyeon’s persistent stubbornness, you let out a resigned sigh, signaling Jiseok to assist you in guiding Jooyeon deeper onto the expansive mattress. Jooyeon, showing no resistance to the shift, allowed himself to be maneuvered into position. You ensured he was properly angled against the cool metal bars of the headboard, which elicited a faint wince from him as the chill of the contact met his skin.
Ignoring the fleeting reaction, you proceeded with practiced precision. You handed Jiseok one of the handcuffs, the cold metal gleaming in the dim light, while you retained the other. With swift, deliberate movements, you secured Jooyeon’s wrist to the headboard, the clink of the cuffs breaking the room's heavy silence. As you completed the task, you deftly placed the blindfold over Jooyeon’s eyes, his vision swallowed by the soft, dark fabric. The blindfold, with its promise of obscurity, heightened the anticipation of the moment.
Jiseok, finding the scenario both entertaining and gratifying, let out a light-hearted giggle. His amusement was palpable, a sharp contrast to Jooyeon's subdued state. Following your subtle command, Jiseok positioned himself beneath Jooyeon's bent legs with eager compliance, a reflection of his own excitement.
Turning your gaze back to Jooyeon, you let your voice carry a blend of authority and curiosity. “Joo,” you began, your tone both commanding and contemplative. “You apologized to me earlier. What was it you were apologizing for, hmm?” The question hung in the air, a tantalizing blend of reprimand and intrigue, as you awaited his response.
At your question, Jooyeon huffed in exasperation, the sound betraying his simmering frustration. His arousal, already a deep, agonized red, leaked persistently, the tip glistening with the evidence of his prolonged neglect. It was clear how desperately he had been yearning for release, having restrained himself in hopes of finding favor with you through his own unique, if misguided, penitence.
A flicker of sympathy might have crossed your mind, recognizing the restraint he had exercised. It was evident how much self-discipline it had taken for him to refrain from touching himself, despite the visual and auditory cues of your pleasure. Yet, your resolve remained steadfast as you waited for his response, your demeanor unwavering and authoritative.
With a measured motion, you squeezed a generous amount of lube onto your hand, the slick, cool substance glistening under the soft illumination of the room. You stroked your silicone length with deliberate, smooth motions, the sensation sending a shiver of anticipation through you. The rhythmic motion of your hand was met with a shuddering breath from Jooyeon, his blindfolded eyes unable to witness the source of his torment.
"I'm sorry," he finally gasped, his voice breaking under the weight of his emotions. "I was sorry for breaking your rule. I—I was being a brat." His words were choked with a mixture of regret and desperation, the sound of his voice mingling with the slick sounds of your movements.
A satisfied hum escaped your lips, the sound a testament to his confession meeting your expectations. You applied another generous amount of lube, this time to your index and middle fingers, preparing them for what was to come. With a silent nod towards Jiseok, who eagerly complied, you watched as he spread his legs wide, presenting himself with an eager readiness that mirrored his excitement.
“Hmm,” you mused aloud, your fingers hovering tantalizingly close to Jiseok’s entrance. The anticipation in the room was palpable, a shimmering thread of tension binding everyone present. Jiseok quivered beneath you, his body trembling with eagerness, while Jooyeon, bound and blindfolded, writhed restlessly against the confines of his restraints.
Your fingers, poised with a deliberate slowness, lingered just at the edge of Jiseok’s entrance. The air was thick with expectancy, each breath drawn in sharp, shivering gasps. Jooyeon, his senses heightened by the blindfold, could only guess at what was to come. The sound of his shallow breathing and the restless shifting of his bound form spoke volumes of his eagerness.
“No,” Jooyeon’s voice was a desperate whisper, his head shaking in frantic agreement. “No, I won’t do it again.” His words came out in hurried breaths, a mixture of surrender and pleading lacing his tone. The intensity of his response was matched only by the fervent anticipation emanating from Jiseok, who continued to tremble beneath your careful touch.
Satisfied with Jooyeon's desperate response, you finally yielded to Jiseok’s eager pleas. Slowly, deliberately, you began to insert your index finger into Jiseok’s warm, inviting entrance. The sensation was exquisite, the tightness enveloping your finger as Jiseok emitted a guttural, primal moan that resonated with pure, unrestrained pleasure. You paused for a moment, allowing him to adjust to the intrusion, savoring the way his body tensed and then relaxed in response.
Your attention drifted to Jooyeon, who squirmed restlessly against the headboard, his hips lifting in a desperate, silent plea. The blindfold covering his eyes rendered him unaware of the intimate scene unfolding right before him, intensifying his frustration. A cruel, mocking smile curled on your lips as you watched his futile attempts to seek out the touch he craved so badly. His blindfolded eyes fluttered, and his body writhed in vain.
You began a slow, rhythmic motion, your finger moving in and out of Jiseok with deliberate care. Each thrust drew soft, breathy whimpers from Jiseok, turning him into a trembling mess of pleasure. Meanwhile, Jooyeon’s frustration grew palpable, his jealousy a stark contrast to the pleasure Jiseok was receiving.
With a hint of mockery in your voice, you leaned closer to Jooyeon, who could only hear the sound of your voice and the relentless moans of Jiseok. “Aw, baby,” you cooed, dripping with sarcasm. “Did you really think I would give you what you wanted so easily after the stunt you pulled?” The tone of your voice was both taunting and authoritative, ensuring Jooyeon felt every ounce of the frustration you intended to impart.
Jooyeon finally broke the silence with a pitiful whine that seemed to escape from deep within him, the sound stretching and echoing through the room as if it had been held captive for an eternity. His hips shifted restlessly, seeking out your touch in vain, but he could only fumble in frustration, unable to find the relief he so desperately craved.
Meanwhile, you had slid your middle finger into Jiseok’s tight, welcoming entrance, the additional intrusion causing him to shudder in heightened ecstasy. His moans grew louder, more intense, each sound a testament to the pleasure you were bestowing upon him. The contrast between Jiseok’s blissful surrender and Jooyeon’s growing frustration was striking, almost painterly in its stark divergence. It was a tableau of sensory extremes that you found almost intoxicating—so vivid, so compelling that you wished you could etch it permanently behind your eyelids.
“That’s not fair!” Jooyeon’s voice pierced the air, slightly shriller than usual, laced with a mix of desperation and indignation. “I apologized! I apologized many times!” Even though the blindfold shielded his eyes, you could almost see the frustration etched into his features, the crinkle of his brows and the relentless squirming of his restrained body.
The room was filled with the slick, obscene sounds of your lubed fingers working within Jiseok, the rhythmic, wet noises a stark contrast to Jooyeon’s pained, futile attempts to find solace. Each sound seemed to amplify Jooyeon’s discomfort, his length twitching in response to the overwhelming mix of envy and unfulfilled desire. You could hardly contain a dark chuckle, your amusement palpable as you reveled in his distress, savoring the sight of his suffering as he continued to be left wanting.
Gradually, your gaze shifted towards Jiseok, who lay beneath you, flushed a deep, fervent crimson from the intensity of the minimal stimulation he had already received. His body was a canvas of shimmering sweat and eager anticipation. With a voice that was a gentle contrast to the sharpness you had shown Jooyeon, you asked, “Do you think you’re ready, baby? Can you take me now?”
Jiseok’s response was a frantic nod, his legs curling around your waist in a desperate attempt to draw you closer to where he craved you the most. His movements were filled with an urgency that matched his need. However, you pulled your fingers out of him with deliberate slowness, gently unlocking his legs from around you. His whimper of disappointment was almost a silent plea, a sound that tugged at the edges of your satisfaction.
You guided him onto his stomach with a soft, yet firm motion, his compliance immediate and obedient. As he settled beneath you, you draped yourself over his slick, heated body, savoring the intimate contact. To intensify Jooyeon’s torment, you carefully repositioned Jiseok’s hands so they gripped Jooyeon’s ankles, a gesture of silent command. The slight pressure you applied to his wrists was a clear, unspoken instruction to keep them firmly in place.
With a slow, deliberate motion, you finally pushed your strap into Jiseok’s yearning entrance. His moan, raw and unrestrained, was the loudest you had heard throughout the evening. The sound was a heady mix of pleasure and relief, and you had barely begun to move. The thought swelled your ego, a silent triumph that danced across your features as you watched Jooyeon’s escalating frustration.
Jooyeon thrashed against his restraints, his pleas and apologies, a chaotic blend of desperation. “It hurts,” he cried, his voice breaking with the weight of his need. “Please, it hurts so much. I’m sorry, please!” His incoherent babbling and fervent promises of never repeating his misstep only served to deepen your satisfaction, his desperation a stark contrast to the pleasure you were bestowing upon Jiseok.
After a lingering moment in which you savored the sight of Jooyeon collapsing under the weight of his own frustration, you decided to extend your reach. Your fingers, slick with remnants of dry lube, moved deliberately towards his aching, neglected length. The moment your hand made contact, Jooyeon released a relieved sob, his hips instinctively thrusting into your touch, desperate for the attention he had been deprived of for so long.
The sound of his reaction elicited a genuine chuckle from you, a soft contrast to the earlier cruelty that had colored your interactions. As you continued to stroke him, your touch infused with a tenderness that belied the harshness of the earlier moments, you felt a surge of genuine endearment towards him. You let the pace of your hips gradually quicken, each thrust causing Jiseok’s trembling form to jolt in sync, his moans and whimpers barely a murmur against the overwhelming symphony of pleasure filling the room.
The scene was intoxicating, a vivid tableau of sensual surrender and trust. Both of your lovers were lost in their own realms of ecstasy, unraveling completely at your touch. They lay exposed, their deepest vulnerabilities laid bare before you, their trust in you evident in their complete submission. It was an honor so profound that words would fail to capture its essence. Instead, you chose to express your appreciation through this intimate exchange, allowing them to reveal their rawest selves in the hope that you would tend to their needs with the care and devotion they craved.
Given the intensity of their prolonged arousal, it was no surprise when you felt Jooyeon’s length twitch uncontrollably, a testament to the desperate pleasure you were bestowing upon him. His whines and groans, long stifled, now spilled forth in a chorus of longing. Simultaneously, Jiseok’s moans grew more frequent and pitched, a high, trembling note of his own impending release. Both of them, on the precipice of their climax, were eagerly pushing their needy forms against you, their bodies seeking the final, elusive touch that would drive them to the edge.
The effort you were putting into their pleasure had begun to weigh on you, a dull ache settling into your muscles from the relentless movements. Yet, the sight and sounds of their need kept you going, your resolve unwavering as you continued to give them what they craved. The room was filled with the heady mix of their desperate cries and the rhythmic pace of your motions, a testament to the shared, mounting ecstasy.
It wasn’t long before their bodies surged against you in a final, coordinated dance towards release. Their moans crescendoed into prolonged, melodic expressions of pure bliss, a symphony of gratification that left both men trembling and breathless. As their climaxes unfolded, you gradually eased to a halt, your own breath coming in heavy, ragged gasps. You pulled away from them slowly, allowing them to experience the last shudders of their aftershocks. The intimate silence that followed was filled with the echoes of their satisfaction, a profound testament to the intensity of the shared experience.
As your breaths gradually steadied and your heart rate returned to a more manageable pace, you surrendered to the softness of the mattress beneath you with a sigh of both exhaustion and profound contentment. The cool sheets brushed against your skin as you nestled into the plush surface, feeling the weight of the evening’s intensity finally lifting.
Jiseok, ever attentive and affectionate, immediately drew close to you, his warmth a comforting presence as he settled beside you. His gentle movements were accompanied by the soft clinking of handcuffs being released—your attention briefly drawn to Jooyeon as you freed him from his restraints. The momentary distraction quickly dissolved as Jooyeon, now liberated, nestled against your other side, creating a cocoon of shared intimacy.
You found yourself enveloped in the tender embrace of both men, their bodies pressing close to yours, forming a trio of intertwined warmth and affection. No words were necessary in this tranquil afterglow; the steady rhythm of three heartbeats aligning in a harmonious cadence spoke volumes. It was a silent testament to the deep bond you all shared, despite their penchant for testing your limits. In that quiet, blissful silence, the love between you thrived—unspoken yet undeniably profound.
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My family suffers the scourge of repeated displacement due to the outbreak of the dreaded war
From which our children, our home, and our shops were not spared...
Since the outbreak of the war, my family has been displaced time after time. Their displacement has reached 7 times, and they suffer from a lack of nutrition, health and everything, especially Youssef, the child who was born in a tent in harsh conditions.
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( 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐑 ): Release Date: Posted!
──── * ˚ ✦ ECHOES OF US ( stray kids )
❛ After a painful breakup, you and Jeongin struggle to maintain a civil front for your mutual friends, but when he accidentally calls you by your old pet name, unresolved emotions resurface, forcing you both to confront the lingering feelings between you.
𝐲𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐣𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧 + gender neutral reader ೯ ( 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 )
𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 10.5k~
꒰ 💌 ꒱ ミ This is sort of still a work in progress, but really it just means that I have to finish writing the ending of the final draft before finally moving on to proofreading. Since this is my first official long-fic (a story for a single member that's over 10K), I thought it might be fun to announce it now and see who's interested! This was anonymously requested! (Anon, I'm sorry it took me a hot minute to finally finish this, but I hope I made up for it with how long it ended up being 🫠) Reblogs for this teaser are always appreciated! Requests are currently open! ── ( 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 )
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Mentions of sibling death and grief, very brief mention of a dysfunctional home, brief explanation of sibling death, Y/N's sibling has their own name, mentions of being abandoned, heartbreak, awkward re-encounter after almost a year, discussions on mental health, a whole lot of angst, comforting ending.
( 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 ) ( 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 & 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ) ( 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ) ( 𝐭𝐢𝐩 𝐣𝐚𝐫 )
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stranger (hwang hyunjin x gn!reader)
angst, hurt without comfort, break up, reader is in shambles
an: that's definitely not my best work so im really sorry for any mistakes >< nonetheless i hope you'll enjoy it, bc in my head the idea was pretty cool :3 also, the paragraphs written in italic are the memories, i dont know if i made it clear enough😭
“yn, don’t make it even harder,” hyunjin whispered as he glanced at your face. you must’ve looked truly pathetic - the tears were making their way down your red, puffy face and you were sobbing loudly. you couldn’t believe what had just happened - did he really break up with you or was it just a bad dream?
“hyune- baby, please, i-” you stuttered, gasping for air in between sobs.
“i’ve made my decision. goodbye, yn.” with that he closed the door, leaving you on the floor of your apartment. your vision was blurry and you were too weak to even get up. that day you fell asleep on the floor by the entrance, foolishly hoping that hyunjin would come back to you.
you recalled the memory, stepping out of the shower. it was the first time in a week when you decided to take care of yourself after hyunjin broke up with you. it’d been a hard week, but you couldn’t remember much anyway. the only thing you knew was the pain in your chest as if your heart was ripped from your body.
you didn’t bother to put on any clothes or to brush your damp hair since you headed straight to bed. you dropped your tired, achy body on the messy beddings and you shivered. it’d been raining for the past few days and you wondered if the sun had peeked into your bedroom through the curtains and told the clouds to match your mood so you wouldn’t feel lonely. you curled yourself into a ball, placing your hands on your shoulders as the raindrops pattered softly on your window. tap, tap, tap, the rhythm of the rain made your finger move faintly against your shoulder and suddenly the memories flooded your brain.
you felt someone tapping your shoulder and you yelped, blushing instantly as you realised you made too much noise in the library.
“sorry! sorry, i just-” the boy started hesitantly, whisper-yelling the apology. “are going to use that book?” he pointed to the textbook you were holding firmly in your hands. you nodded.
“oh, okay, sorry for bothering you!” he said with a frown and started walking away.
“wait! you can join me if also need it,” you suggested with a shy smile and he stopped in his tracks, turning around to you with a grin.
your hand wandered down your body, stopping at the waist. you squeezed it once, just like hyunjin used to do. a few tears made their way down your face.
“we passed!” hyunjin exclaimed as he ran to you with a piece of paper in his hand. you grinned at him as he stopped right in front of you, proudly showing you his score.
“congrats, hyune! are you going to-” you started but never finished as he suddenly grabbed your waist and picked you up, spinning you around, and you giggled. when he put you down he still firmly held your waist with one hand, squeezing it.
“let’s go and eat something, hm? my treat,” he said and you just smiled, letting him lead the way.
you squeezed your eyes, loud sobs now leaving your body as you remembered how happy you two used to be together. the rain outside intensified, turning into a downpour, and it made you feel even worse. “stop crying” you thought to yourself, “show the sun you’re okay so the clouds won’t have to suffer anymore.”
you moved your hand to wipe your wet cheek, but you just rested it there, suddenly remembering how hyunjin used to cradle your face.
“look, i can hold the whole world in my hands,” he whispered, looking you deeply in the eyes as his hands held your cheeks. you blushed and playfully hit him in the arm.
“stop being cheesy,” you whined, dropping your eyes because hyunjin’s gaze was too piercing for you. he giggled at your words and kissed your forehead.
“i just really love you, you know?” he then said and you hid your red face in the crook of his neck, breathing his cologne and relaxing completely as his arms protected you from the outside world. in that moment you felt complete.
a long wail left your body. it hurt, it hurt so much you though you weren’t going to make it. what was left for you anyway? there was no one who could hug you after a long day, no one who could wait for you with warm dinner, no one who loved you.
you brought your hand to your hair, desperately trying to comb through them as hyunjin used to whenever you felt too overwhelmed. you grazed your nails on your scalp, imitating his movements, but it only increased the pain. you didn’t know how to treat yourself anymore - you gave all of you to hyunjin and as he left he took your heart with him, leaving you with the void that nothing and no one could ever fill again.
you wrapped your arms around your body again, squeezing yourself as hard as you could, but you soon realised only hyunjin could embrace you tightly enough for all the broken parts of you to fall back into place. with the day he left you you became a stranger to yourself.
taglist !
@lynlyndoll @iyenbread @flooo71 @skz-streamer @inniescandy-01 @hannahhbahng @prettymiye0n @ggsez31 @laylasbunbunny @like-a-diamondinthesky @axel-skz @kittymaryam-thebrowniefairy @l3visbby @skzhoes
【 WWW.MINHOSBITTERRIVER.COM/STRAYKIDS 】
💭 GUIDELINES ‣ LIBRARY ‣ TAGLIST & ANONS ‣ REQUEST LIST ‣ PINNED ‣ TIP JAR
📨 REQUESTS ARE CLOSED 📨 WORK COUNT: O22 📨
스트레이 키즈 ── OT8. ( stray kids )
🌏─────SHIBARI | 0.9K — HEADCANONS | MDNI | i love shibari with my entire soul and i feel like we as a society don’t talk about it enough — particularly about how emotional it can be if done right. (GENDER NEUTRAL READER)
🌏─────POTHEADS | 1.8K — HEADCANONS | MDNI | green decides what kind of stoners the stray kids members are. (NO READER) REQUESTED
🌏─────IN THE ABSENCE OF YOU | 4.4K — HEADCANONS | in which the members of stray kids navigate the world of fatherhood without you. (FEMALE READER) REQUESTED
⭐️─────CAUGHT IN THE ACT | 15.6K — HEADCANONS | the reactions of each member of stray kids when they're caught kissing you by another member. (GENDER NEUTRAL READER) REQUESTED
방찬 ── CHAHN BAHNG. ( bang chan )
⭐️─────USE OF THE SAFE WORD | 1.9K — ONE-SHOT | MDNI | chan had always been the sweetest human ever, but after you’d both had a rough week, you both find out that you had different ways of decompressing. (FEMALE READER) REQUESTED
🌏─────HOW HE CARES | 2.2K — ONE-SHOT | an episode of 2 kids’ show reveals just how deep your friendship with chan runs. (FEMALE READER) REQUESTED
🌏─────SAFE HAVEN | 1.6K — ONE-SHOT | chan takes care of you while on your period. (FEMALE READER) REQUESTED
이민호 ── LEE MINHO. ( lee know )
🌏─────I’M ON YOUR SIDE | 1.8K — ONE-SHOT | following the devastating death of your sister, you find yourself navigating a world that throws you into the deep end of piling bills and worries that you were unsure of how to handle. (GENDER NEUTRAL READER) REQUESTED
🌏─────PUPPY LOVE | 1.0K — HEADCANONS | in which high school lee minho is so madly in love with you that he's willing to follow you anywhere, anytime. (MALE READER) REQUESTED
⭐️─────BONDS OF PASSION | 7.2K — ONE-SHOT | MDNI | in a night of profound emotional connection and intimacy, you and minho explore your bond through the intricate art of shibari, culminating in a tender embrace that deepens your love and gratitude. (FEMALE READER) REQUESTED
서창빈 ── SEO CHANGBIN. ( changbin )
🌏─────WHEN COLORS CARESS | 2.8K — ONE-SHOT | MDNI | you and your lover, changbin, explore the depths of your relationship through an intimate art session, where changbin’s skin becomes your canvas for emotional expression. (GENDER NEUTRAL READER) REQUESTED
황현진 ── HWANG HYUNJIN. ( hyunjin )
🌏─────ERASE ME FROM YOUR MEMORY | 0.6K — ONE-SHOT | half a year after you and hyunjin break up, you find that you’ve somehow healed. (GENDER NEUTRAL READER)
🌏─────CINEMATIC SECRETS | 3.2K — ONE-SHOT | MDNI | in the hushed shadows of an empty cinema, you and hyunjin find yourselves doing anything except watch the film. (MALE READER) REQUESTED
⭐️─────RAIN-SWEETENED HEARTS | 4.5K — ONE-SHOT | MDNI | on a rainy evening, a deepening connection unfolds between you and hyunjin as you explore your newfound intimacy in the cozy sanctuary of your studio apartment. amidst clumsy yet heartfelt moments, your bond blossoms into a magical dance of tenderness and desire, celebrated under the gentle rhythm of the falling rain. (FEMALE READER) REQUESTED
한지성 ── HAN JISUNG. ( han )
🌏─────‘TILL FOREVER FALLS APART | ~7.2K — SERIES | MDNI | in which two disabled idols find comfort in each other’s arms. (FEMALE READER) STATUS: ON-GOING TAGLIST: OPEN
이용복 ── LEE YONGBOK. ( felix )
🌏─────EVERYTHING IS YOU | 3.3K — ONE-SHOT | through every single hardship you’ve ever endured, felix always waited for you, ready to bring you into the safety of his embrace. so when you’re stuck amidst the complicated emotions following your father’s passing, the first and only person you sought for comfort was your best friend. (GENDER NEUTRAL READER) REQUESTED
⭐️─────THE LAST STRAW | 3.5K — ONE-SHOT | after a final argument with your toxic, manipulative mother over your irresponsible younger brother, you decide to cut ties with your family, only to be overwhelmed by doubt and panic until your supportive boyfriend, felix, reassures you that choosing yourself was the right decision. (GENDER NEUTRAL READER) REQUESTED
김승민 ── KIM SEUNGMIN. ( seungmin )
🌏─────YOU CAN BURST INTO FLAMES | 1.2K — ONE-SHOT | seungmin helps you get through a thunderstorm by showering you with tender love and singing to you. (GENDER NEUTRAL READER)
⭐️─────STILL FRAMES | 7.5K — ONE-SHOT | after fainting during a photography class outing, you're tenderly cared for by a seemingly cold classmate, seungmin, leading to an unexpected and heartwarming connection between the two of you. (GENDER NEUTRAL READER)
양정인 ── YANG JEONGIN. ( i.n )
🌏─────BLAME ME IF YOU WANT | 1.1K — ONE-SHOT | you deluded yourself into thinking you and jeongin were meant to last forever. but after some time where he felt distant, you come to find out why. (GENDER NEUTRAL READER)
🌏─────EUPHORIA | 3.4K — ONE-SHOT | MDNI | as you and jeongin engage in an intense and synchronized exploration of your desires, the pleasure between you reaches a crescendo. your intimate connection is solidified with tender expressions of love and a deep, satisfying closeness that comes with trying new things. (FEMALE READER) REQUESTED
⭐️─────ECHOES OF US | 12.6K — LONG-FIC | after a painful breakup, you and jeongin struggle to maintain a civil front for your mutual friends, but when he accidentally calls you by your old pet name, unresolved emotions resurface, forcing you both to confront the lingering feelings between you. (GENDER NEUTRAL READER) REQUESTED
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© MINHOSBITTERRIVER | do not plagiarize, repost or translate my works on this platform or any others.
this felt like reading a long poem about experiencing the intensities of love, yet having the strength and will to choose yourself first and i loved every minute of it.
Visions of You in Solitude
Pairing: Hwang Hyunjin x fem reader
W/c: 26.5k
Warnings: erotic painting, mentions of masturbation, sex in a semi-public place (no one is around), breast/nipple play, dry humping, unprotected sex, creampie, oral sex (fem receiving), cum eating, use of pet names, drinking
Synopsis: You were hired to paint him- not fall for him. But intentions quickly shift when Hyunjin finds himself infatuated with you and learns the secrets you harbor.
[this work was based off a request by “🐼” anon - thank you for requesting!]
18+. Mdni!
•
There’s something to be said about the loneliness that comes with being an artist. The repetitive cycle of translating tangibility to canvas or paper in whichever chosen medium. Fleeting muses you draw inspiration from, which quickly become burdensome as you’re faced with them every waking second of your day. Obsession with perfecting your craft, the anxieties that come with criticism of your life’s work and sometimes even succumbing to changing it entirely at the hands of someone else’s advice.
It’s very seldom even your craft at a certain point, only existing to satisfy the visual demands of others and turn a profit when displayed at a show. And it’s certainly not for everyone, not when it’s this lonely and rooted in the discomfort of personal solitude.
*
From this proximity, the blinding white walls that span the perimeter of the waiting room feel like that of a prison’s- coupled with the glossy laminate flooring and glaring white lights, you feel completely entrapped.
“They’re almost ready for you,” your boss says abruptly as he enters the room and occupies the gray folding chair next to you. “You have everything you need?”
Headcount- your black leather briefcase of oil paints, brushes, charcoal, pencils, paint thinner, old rags and your painting palette.
“The canvas is already set up,” your boss chimes in as if he can read your mind. “And there’s a seat for you. Just relax, and don’t push yourself.”
You take a deep breath, doing your best to follow his advice- but a part of you wants to get up and leave, to run away from all of this. Painting is your passion, it’s your forte and it’s been your life’s work for as long as you can remember. But being commissioned like this, for men much richer than money you’ll ever see, it feels suffocating.
They don’t tell you their names these days, nor the name of whatever organization they’re from. Last month it was an elite group of stock investors, the month before, it was a famous violinist from Japan. And today, it’s a male group, eight members with net worths that look like telephone numbers, or so you’ve been told. And it’s not that you’re intimidated, but you do get self-conscious at the prospect of people watching you while you paint. At some point, it’s like you become the model, their eyes boring into your flesh as you paint long strokes across the canvas and order them to hold still.
“Five minutes,” your boss now says, checking the time on his silver watch and adjusting it so that it sits a little higher up on his wrist.
You wish he wouldn’t count the minutes. You wish he’d stay quiet, allow you to sit with your thoughts and ruminate the day ahead of you. And yet he taps his heel in syncopation with the second hand on the clock above you, the echoing click of both driving you up the wall.
“I need a breather,” you state suddenly, sitting up from your chair and smoothing down your smock. “I need to go outside.”
“Three minutes,” he responds sterly, tapping at the glass lens of his watch and motioning to the door.
You shove your way past the double doors, past the white tiled hallway and just in front of the double doors that lead to freedom again. Two minutes.
It’s like your body is giving out on you involuntarily, your knees buckling as you grip the stair railing and steady your breathing. A quick glance around to ensure no one’s caught you heaving so nervously- and you’re too late. A man saunters down the hallway past you, his hands shoved casually in his pockets as he cocks his head to stare at you, his long black hair falling loosely around his shoulders as he does. He’s tall, and slim, with an elongated torso hugged by an expensive denim coat, his slender legs on display in black slacks and complemented by a sharp pair of boots. You don’t catch a very good look at his face, his figure blurring by as you check your watch, to the second now- you’re supposed to be inside.
You waste no more time jogging down the hallway past the figure and back into the waiting room, where your boss is angrily tapping his heel and scanning the room for you.
“There you are,” he says frustratedly. “No more breaks if you can’t manage your time. They’re waiting for us.”
And with a deep breath, he helps you gather your art supplies, motioning in front of you to the brightly lit room. You take one breath, and then two, as you finally begin into the painting room, eight men already seated and ready for you.
*
The crowd is nothing like the stock investors, or the violinists you’re used to. They’re rowdy, and loud. They very seldom sit still, cracking jokes amongst themselves and shoving each other off the wooden stools every other minute. You do your best to keep your gaze away from them when you don’t need to look at them, trying to memorize their features in intervals so you can focus on just the canvas in front of you as you paint. But it’s nearly impossible, their melodic voices pressing you for answers and insights into your artist career.
“What’s the hardest painting you’ve ever done?” One asks, his baritone voice sounding almost startling in contrast to his bright appearance.
“There’s lots,” you reply quietly. “I’m not sure I can pick one.”
You give him a small smile, trying to memorize the freckles on his face before turning back to the canvas, hoping you won’t have to glance back over at him for the next minute or so.
“Let’s take five,” your boss says as he enters the room again, two iced coffees balanced in his hands. “Thanks, guys.”
And the men scatter to their break room, where neat trays of food are already set out for them to choose from. As the doors swing closed behind them, you watch them select from a variety of pre-cooked noodles, assorted fruits and vegetables, packs of chips and trays upon trays of desserts. They’re fed as though they’re the ones doing all the painting.
“Coffee,” Q says, setting down a plastic cup in front of you, the straw already conveniently placed for you.
“Thanks, Quinton.”
Your boss, Quinton, or Q, is a brutally honest man when he wants to be, quick to comment on your work and keep you in your place. He runs your calendar like the military, never missing an important appointment and opting you in for every profitable painting session possible. He’s another thing you find suffocating at the worst of times, always somewhere breathing commands down your neck and dragging you to every private event under the sun.
“Let me see,” Q states plainly, gesturing to the canvas with his cup of coffee. You shyly angle the canvas toward him, hoping he won’t scrutinize anything about your pacing- you’re trying to get out of here as quickly as possible, and you silently pray the art doesn’t reflect that sentiment.
But to your surprise, he doesn’t, swiping a few stray eraser shavings off the canvas and giving you a nod.
“Looks good. Remember, we just need the skin tones and facial features. The clothes and all that can be filled in later with our reference pictures.”
You nod in response, taking a generous sip of your coffee, realizing this is probably the worst beverage you could’ve picked to calm your nerves. The caffeine pulsates through you, making your heart flutter even more than it already is, and the bitter taste leaves little to salivate over.
“How much longer, do you think?” You inquire, chewing on the tip of your straw nervously.
“No more than an hour, if you keep up this pace,” Q responds. “I’m going to the bathroom real quick, have everything ready again for when I get back. Don’t make me wait.”
You watch as he gets up from his own wooden stool, placing his cup of coffee where he sits, and exits the room to the corridor once again.
You’re alone in the painting room, the white sheets that line the floors staring back at you with little eyes in the form of paint splotches. From behind the door, you can still hear the eight men shuffling about, laughing loudly and downing their snacks. And you want to leave again, the feeling instilling another sense of foreignness inside of you. Like you don’t belong here, even though you’re the painter. You feel small, cramped, even useless, as you stare down the painted flesh outlines across from you.
A click of the door closing beside you garners your attention, and you look up expecting Q to return and resume the session. But it’s not Q- it’s the same figure from earlier in the hallway, slowly making his way inside and hoisting himself back up on the wooden stool. He keeps his head down as he gets comfortable again, two hands running through his black hair and slicking it back out of his forehead.
And then he looks at you- or stares, rather, two hands resting on the exposed wood in front of him as his legs balance on the wooden beams below. You can feel his eyes burning into your figure, and you do everything in your power to avert his gaze and keep your eyes locked on the canvas in front of you. But he remains like that, staring, for several minutes, until you nervously tilt your head to catch his gaze.
You feel your heart race as you do, catching a glimpse of his flawless features as he furrows his brows in concentration. His silky black hair isn’t the only striking thing about him- he has piercing brown eyes, which narrow with such intensity as he remains seated there, unmoving and confident in his stance. His plump lips contrast beautifully against his chiseled jawline, and his lanky figure makes him look like the contemporary art statues you’re so acquainted with, like he’s formed from wire and positioned to slouch so artistically in his spot.
You say nothing to the man, opting to give him a little nod, before focusing back on the beverage in your hands. And despite his clear fascination with you, he doesn’t reciprocate, instead pulling a cell phone out of his back pocket and preoccupying himself again.
You can’t quite tell if he’s rude, or strange, or even just unaware that his presence is so uncomfortable when he’s choosing to speak through cold stares instead of words. As you watch him through your peripheral vision, you hear the familiar sound of Q’s boots click through the doorway, gesturing rapidly at you and at the canvas.
“Let’s continue,” he orders, clasping his hands together with such purpose. “Where are they?” Q then questions, his eyes darting over the quiet man’s indifferent posture. And the strange man finally gets up from his stool, making his way through the break room door to usher the others inside once again.
They follow like a row of ducks, back to their respective seats, some of them with drinks in hand as they share whispered laughter amongst themselves and make little effort to sit still. You have no trouble picking up right where you left off, the innate talent to mirror figures in front of you coming in handy as you race the clock to complete their flesh-colored outlines.
Most of them converse lightly amongst each other, holding your gaze with a more serious expression when they catch you looking over at them.
Except for the strange man.
He’s relentless in his ways, continuing to stare so impolitely at you, his eyes piercing daggers right through your soul as he cocks his head to the left, and then the right, studying your face as you study all eight of theirs. What his intentions are exactly, you have no clue, simply opting to avert his gaze when you can and keep busy with your painting.
One hour later, the canvas illustrates all eight outlines of flesh and distinctive features, highlighting the beige freckles on one man’s, the toned biceps of another, and all other features that set them apart from each other. True to Q’s reminder, their clothes are traced in outlines, but color is void of their stencils, as you still have to bring the canvas home to complete the finishing touches. When they’re dismissed for the day, the gentlemen are all led by a sculpted man with a big smile who introduces himself as the leader, orchestrating the bows and applause that are held for you.
And as he ushers them out one by one, the strange man who’s been watching you all day is the last to leave, lingering a little bit too long with his hands shoved in his pockets like he wants to say something. He loiters by the canvas for several minutes, but you make no move to angle the painting at him, usually maintaining a certain extent of confidentiality in your work to keep the surprise.
He seems to take the hint, almost nodding indirectly at you and more toward the wall, as he finally saunters out of the room with his hands still in his pockets, his strides painfully slow as he disappears from your sight.
And when you look back to the painting, you cock your head at his outline, trying to gauge whether your art properly captures the sheer sense of unnerve he instills in you with his features alone.
*
Painting sessions are burdensome. They require a lot of planning ahead of time, stocking up on supplies, scheduling around the hours-long timeframe and of course, the mental preparation of having to be stared at by rich men for several hours.
But perhaps critique sessions are even worse these days.
Your paintings are typically set in stone after the initial outlines, considering there are usually a few important figures who review your work and give you the go ahead to take it home and finish it.
Yet sometimes, you still have people complaining, pointing out unimportant features like the color of their sneakers which aren’t to their liking. It’s normally Q who fights these battles for you, refusing to allow you to make any changes since the payments are made upfront, too. But sometimes, even he caves, ordering you to pull out your briefcase and mix a darker shade of green or add more volume to the subject’s hair.
It’s the worst with investors, who put their audacity at the same level as their incomes. But with boy groups like this, you’re unsure, having never done a painting for a band prior to this one.
The finished canvas is transported in a nylon zip-up bag, held by yourself and Q as you fit it inside the truck and secure it with metal prongs. While the drive there is just an hour long, it feels much longer than the last time you traveled there, perhaps because you’re much more nervous.
And perhaps also, it’s because of the same strange man as last time, who you already know is going to have a mouthful to say. The way he lingered by your work station a little too long, wouldn’t stop staring and even excused himself from his own break early to resume his insufferable task of making you uncomfortable. You reckon it’ll be a comment about his hair, asking for a longer length or more volume. Maybe something about the stage outfit you were presented with and how it doesn’t make his legs look long enough. Or knowing his douchebag tendencies, maybe he won’t hesitate to ask for a fucking bulge in his pants at this point.
When you arrive, Q calls over the building staff to help transport the collosal work of art, while you wait awkwardly on the side with your hands shoved in your pockets. You take a moment to crane your neck and look up at the building, a tall glass monument with blue-tinted windows and cobalt text that displays the company name. It’s just as intimidating as you remembered it, instilling the same unnerving feeling that a hospital might.
When the building staff are finally making their way inside, you follow reluctantly, making yourself as small as possible behind them while they navigate the long blinding corridors. It’s an unusual feeling to be at the top floor of the building that you were just looking up at from the street below, and as you pass the windows that line the hallways, you can make out the rows of cars and people that now resemble ants from this high up. It’s as though you were never down there to begin with, like the world is different from up here, much more secluded and shut-in.
And seeing the pin boards that line the walls, with photos of successful artists and flyers for company events, it very well might be, this haunting building where dreams either go to flourish or decay.
Into the last door on the right, eight chairs lined up for eight artists who definitely seem to have flourished. The building staff set up the canvas at the front of the room, securing it into its wooden easel, and Q occupies himself setting up a recording camera which points directly at the painting and captures all eight chairs in the frame. It’s common protocol for events like these to be filmed, not always for public consumption, but for the staff to archive important commemorative moments in the artist’s name. Once the camera is rolling, Q gives you a thumbs up, gesturing to the staff to permit their exit as you make your way to the front with him.
“Ready?” He asks, clasping his hands together as he eyes the camera nervously. You say nothing in response, giving him a small nod, before taking your spot on the other side of the canvas and folding your hands behind your back.
For a few moments of complete silence, the two of you keep your gazes fixed on the clock that lives on the wall across you, the hands ticking with the passing seconds as you await the arrival of the band. Q turns to say something, seemingly disregarding it as he turns back to the wall and shifts his eyes to the door every few moments.
You wish he wouldn’t be so… anticipatory. You wish he’d just stand there, like a rock, indicating nothing of importance, so that you could put less weight into this and unveil the painting to them without any reservations.
Here’s the painting, you want to say. It took me forever, so don’t criticize it. You guys are shorter than my usual subjects. Except for the weirdo- and he stares too much.
You smile to yourself at the thought of being so candid with them, before an abrupt push of the door startles you, and you instantly straighten your posture at the sounds of boots clicking along the floor, leading the eight men who live on the canvas behind you.
One by one they take their seats, dressed to the nines this time in black slacks and collared button ups. They even flaunt ties, mirroring the businessmen you’re used to painting, and the fancy attire quickly makes you nervous as they fold their hands in their laps and fail to joke around like they did the last time.
“Welcome,” a booming voice says, as other important looking figures stand around the room and eye the covered canvas. “It’s a pleasure to have you here, and we’re eager to see what you’ve come up with.”
Applause fills the room, inclusive of the members of the band, which you finally allow yourself to look at. They sit properly, hands folded in their laps and serious expressions painted on their chiseled faces.
Except for the strange one, again, whose gaze is locked on yours. He cocks an eyebrow curiously, as though you’re the one doing the staring. And you quickly turn your attention back to Q, hoping that disregarding the men will calm your nerves a little.
“… she’s paid particular attention to detail,” Q continues, and you realize you’ve missed half his speech already.
“And we are so excited to hang her work in this renowned building as a commemorative piece for the members. Without further ado, please let’s unveil the artwork.”
As he finishes, two members of the staff tug on the beige cloth, letting it fall to the tiled floor beneath it and expose the giant portrait.
Their faces light up instantly, little “woah’s” filling the room as they rise from their seats to take a better look. They laugh at their own figures, they point out each other's and most of them even pull out their cellphones to snap photos of your art. It’s always a gratifying feeling, having a crowd admire the fruits of your labor this way, especially when you aren’t immediately met with verbal protest against your creative choices.
You take a few steps back to give some room to them, the staff talking amongst themselves and gesturing to the building where you presume they speak about where the painting will live.
“It’s a hit,” Q says, coming around to tap you lightly on the arm. “You should be very proud of yourself.”
“Thanks, Quinton,” you respond. “I’m glad everyone enjoys it.”
And the staff applaud you once more, bowing to you and lining up to shake your hand as they begin to file out of the room again.
The members stick around for a good while, unable to take their eyes off the painting as they point out each other's features and admire their own. And as they begin to leave, several of them thank you personally on the way out, giving you a bow and shaking your hand.
“Thank you, really,” the man you remember being the group leader says to you. “We are so honored to have worked on this with you.”
Another clasps your hand in his, bowing several times before speaking. “Seungmin,” he states his name politely. “Thank you, I think you really did our old group leader justice.”
“Hey!” The leader calls, and you can’t help but laugh a little in response.
The others share similar sentiments, bowing and shaking your hand as they exit, chatting excitedly amongst themselves as they make their way down the hall for their next schedule.
And when you turn to face Q, you’re met with the last member, who folds his arms in front of him coldly and eyes the painting with raised eyebrows.
Like clockwork. He doesn’t like it, he’s going to request a change be made to it and he’s going to berate you in front of your own boss.
“It’s nice,” he chimes in casually from where he’s standing.
“Thanks,” you reply, Q gathering the cover from the floor and zipping it up again.
“Just one thing,” he says now, turning to face you.
“Oh, we normally don’t make changes after-”
“I have a freckle under my eye,” he finishes. “The left eye. You didn’t catch it.”
Your eyes scan the painting, where his chiseled face and long hair stare back at you, a serious expression in his eyes like he wears in person. And then you glance at him standing in front of you again, a small brown mole under his left eye, just like he speaks of.
“Go ahead and add it,” Q says, as he zips up the cover. “That should be on there already.”
And you nod your head at both of them, unzipping your briefcase again to retrieve your paints. He’s watching you like a hawk again, towering over your bent figure as you pull out a thin tube of brown paint and squeeze just a miniscule dollop onto the back of your hand. You retrieve your thinnest paint brush, dipping it into the paint and swiping it across your skin to rid the excess from the fine hairs.
It feels as though you have to paint it with his permission, as you bring the brush to his face and glance over at him for instruction. He gestures to his eye, motioning for you to start, as you bring the brush to his canvas flesh and tap on a tiny, single dot.
He stares at it for a moment, cocking his head as though a brown dot somehow won’t be to his liking. And even Q holds his breath while he waits for a comment from the man. You begin to say something, your lips parting silently, stuck on what to remark as you await his feedback. And then with bated breath, he finally speaks, giving a small nod as he does.
“Good,” he says simply. “It’s me now.”
Q nods at him, nods at you, and then gathers your belongings as you cap the loose tube of paint.
“Do you have a card?” The man asks suddenly, and Q pauses his shuffling about to retrieve one from his coat pocket.
“Here’s her card,” he says, against your silent protests. “She’s available for commission any time. Payments are up front and scheduling is through me only.”
The man nods, thumbing the gold foil cardstock in his slender fingers, and then shoves it into the pocket of his slacks.
“Hyunjin,” he says curtly, reaching his hand out to yours. “I’m the main dancer.”
And you just nod, placing your hand in his reluctantly as you shake once.
“Y/n.”
His hands are cold to the touch, the metal of his rings feeling like blocks of ice in your grasp. He holds it there for a moment, his narrowed eyes shooting daggers into yours, before he finally pulls away and pivots to leave with the rest of the band.
And you can only catch a glimpse of the back of his head when he’s halfway out, before Q turns to speak to you.
“Looks like we may be back very soon,” he remarks, latching your briefcase once more. “I’d hold on to that brown paint if I were you.”
*
Exactly four days pass before you hear from Hyunjin again. In fact, you’ve all but forgotten about the little run-in, until Q barges into your studio while you add the finishing touches to another client’s piece.
“I have a proposal for you,” Q voices, setting an iced coffee on the table beside you while you dip your paintbrush in a muddy cup of water.
“What is it?”
“Well financially, a massive opportunity. Career-wise, much of the same thing you’re already doing.”
“Businessmen?” You question, working your paintbrush in thin strokes to add hair to the figure on the canvas.
“Band,” he replies simply. “The same band you did last week. Just one member, though.”
And you know instantly who he speaks of, your face contorting into an expression of disgust as you wash your paint in the cup of water once more.
“Hyunjin?” You query.
“That’s him,” he says, snapping his fingers as the name comes back to him. “He’s offering double what we paid last, and just for an individual piece. That’s a massive markup from what we usually charge.”
“I don’t know,” you reply hesitantly. “I’m pretty busy with this, and we-”
“I already said yes,” he states simply.
“You did? What- I thought this was a proposal.”
“Yeah,” he says with a scoff. “A proposal to get your stuff ready. We start tomorrow. And he wants you to bring every color you’ve got.”
“Tomorrow? Don’t we already have a prior commitment?”
“Already moved them out,” Q says, sitting on the chair across from you.
“Look,” he begins, sighing deeply. “I know you’re hesitant about these things. But this is the best move you can do, career-wise. Painting these famous figures is a gold mine for us. One day you could be commissioned to paint royalty, and then we’ll be reaping three times our salary.”
And you sigh, too, knowing very well that he’s right. Being a painter who gets commissioned to commemorate important characters, you know the best thing you can do for yourself is say yes to every opportunity. You’re very seldom able to, which is why you have Q in the first place. But the prospect of spending another day with Hyunjin scares you, and you’re not sure Q would consider it a legitimate concern if you brought it up to him.
“I’ll be there, too,” Q interrupts, almost as though he can read your mind. “It’s just him. One day, max, and then you can pick up your other projects.”
It doesn’t seem like there will be a way out of this one, no matter how much you pray that things will fall through eventually.
“One day,” you echo. “And then I’m tunnel vision on the rest of my projects.”
*
You can tell Hyunjin’s thought about this very carefully, judging by the way he saunters into the room with purposeful strides and slings a bag off his shoulder.
He’s dressed a little more casually today in a denim jacket and jeans, with layered silver jewelry that contrasts nicely against his jet black hair.
“Like a model headshot, but painted,” he describes his vision to you, gesturing with his hands as he speaks.
“I want it to look really serious. And maybe a cool-toned color palette.”
He’s meticulous with his requests, and you wonder briefly if he dabbles in art, himself.
“Sure, we can do that,” Q responds, jotting down a few points in a small notepad.
You say nothing, letting Q do all the talking, but Hyunjin’s eyes glance over at you briefly like he wants you to acknowledge the request. So you just nod graciously, giving him a thin-lipped smile, and begin to undo your briefcase.
Hyunjin assumes his same spot on one of the wooden stools, dragging it closer to you by its leg and propping it within eye-view of your big canvas. And then he sits on it, or rather slouches, adjusting his gaze to look straight at you and maintain a cold, serious expression.
It’s just as unnerving as you’d remembered it, having this model-looking figure pierce daggers through your soul while you mix your paints- cool-toned ones, at his request, and prepare for the hour-long trek of capturing his essence.
At least you won’t have to talk to him- or so you’d assumed from the last session you completed with him.
“What’s your process like?” He asks, his sultry voice perfectly matching his features.
“Oh,” you remark, mixing a set of paints to mirror his even skin tone. “I don’t know, I just paint what I see.”
He nods, satisfied with your less-than-wordy answer, and then he begins to prod you with more questions.
“What are your favorite art supplies?”
You cock an eyebrow at this, well aware that you have a long list you can indulge him in, but not wanting to share your secrets with this complete stranger.
“I dunno,” you reply softly. “Oil paints, and graphite pencils really.”
Hyunjin nods again, and then he glances at Q, who gives him a thin-lipped smile much like yours, trying his hardest to remain polite with Hyunjin. You know Q is likely frustrated with you for not entertaining this conversation in a more lively manner, especially considering what he paid for this session, but you’re not going to indulge him in anything except painting him- and only for this one session, like you promised Q.
And the rest of the session is uneventful, Hyunjin poking you with questions about your personal favorite paintings or inquiring about a time you messed up on an important piece. All questions which are answered with brief “I don’t know’s” or “there are so many, I can’t choose.”
And although you are trying hard to keep Hyunjin at a distance, nothing seems to faze him, his head nods and little hums serving as indicators of his satisfaction with all of your answers. He doesn’t get pushy, like your other clients often do, and he even presses Q for a few answers as he makes sense of your work.
At just past 5, the session draws to a close, as Hyunjin rises from his stool and announces he has to tend to his evening dance practice.
“It’s nice seeing you again,” Hyunjin says as he approaches you, giving a small bow as Q waits off to the side.
“Thank you,” you voice back, glancing at Q for a push to leave.
And Hyunjin extends a single hand, gesturing for you to place yours in his, as he towers over you with a curious expression.
You reluctantly place your palm in his, letting the cool metal of his rings graze your skin as he clasps his thumbs over your fingers and rubs them in gentle back and forth motions. He doesn’t bring it up for a cordial peck, he doesn’t shake it- he simply caresses your artist hands tenderly, before letting go again and turning to give Q a small bow as well.
“Take care,” Hyunjin says, pivoting to exit the room into the corridor.
And as Q pesters you with orders to clean up your workstation, you examine your own hands, rotating your own fingers around, like they might somehow be changed by his touch.
*
ON HOLD- The notes under your projects on the big calendar in Q’s office read, written in dark red pen and underlined twice across the pages.
You furrow your brows in confusion, setting your bag down as you enter for the day and ready your art supplies.
“What’s going on?” You ask Q, who’s busy sorting through a stack of invoices.
“Have a seat,” he replies plainly, gesturing to one of the leather chairs that accompany his grand wooden desk. And you do, sitting on the very edge of the chair as you await further instruction from him.
“A gift came for you,” Q says, slinging a large box on the desk in front of you.
You stand up once again, peering inside at the myriad of oil paints, sharpened charcoal pencils, new smocks, palettes and even books about artists and their works. You dig through the supplies, heart racing at the expensive choices, feeling undeserving of all the presents the box contains.
“This is all for me?” You question, baffled at the prospect that anybody could care enough about your career to indulge you in such a fine assortment of goods.
“Read the card,” Q then says, his arms folded in front of him as he nods toward the top of the cardboard box, where a simple yellow envelope is taped to the cover, cursive text scribbled on the front. Hyunjin, it reads.
You undo the seal, pulling out the small card inside, which only contains a short, cold sentence, in contrast to the warm gift.
“For the next few”, it says, not so much as a sign off or even a simple “thanks”.
“Next few?” You repeat, meeting Q’s gaze with a confused expression.
Q sighs, sitting across from you, folding his hands out on the wooden surface where you can see them.
“His manager called this morning,” he begins. “And commissioned us for another one. Except this one has a long set of rules. He wants you to use these supplies, he wants to visit your studio instead of occupy the company building. And he specifically asked me not to accompany you.”
“What?” You exclaim, angered at the sheer audacity he has, and knowing very well that you only agreed to one painting.
“That’s completely against our rules,” you continue. “Did you tell him no?”
And Q gives you a sheepish grin, gesturing to the stack of papers he flipped through earlier. “They’re offering quadruple the pay,” he says sternly. “He’s obsessed with your work.”
“So what?” You argue. “I have a ton of other projects to finish. And I’m not throwing all of that away because some guy wants time alone with the artist.”
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting alone time with an artist,” Q emphasizes.
“This is a huge sacrifice, Quinton. I wish you would’ve run this by me earlier.”
Your eyes meet the calendar above his desk again, counting the number of projects with a big ON HOLD scribbled below them. Q sighs, evidently feeling a little guilty for his own actions, and then pinches his wireframe glasses between his fingers, pulling them off his face and tucking them into the pocket of his blazer.
“I’m willing to give you 10% more than what you already make from these.”
Your gaze snaps to his, a bewildered expression on your face as you process his words.
“What- seriously? Quinton, that’s-”
“His company’s loaded” he says with a shrug. “The guy is so much bigger than I thought he was. People love him.”
And your gaze flickers between the calendar and the big red text, Quinton’s hopeful stare and at the box of new art supplies you’ll be required to work with.
Q doesn’t need to press you for verbal confirmation, knowing that the caress of your fingers over Hyunjin’s name on the envelope serves as answer enough.
*
Your studio is particularly messy on Wednesdays, housing all of the project paraphernalia from the days prior. Today is no exception, canvases that sit on easels lining the walls and cans of paint thinner spread out on the tarps. You make your best attempt at shoving everything against the wall, creating a clear pathway for Hyunjin to stride into the way he always does. And you set up your canvas prior to his arrival, getting all of your necessary supplies in place to avoid the awkward few moments of setting up while he watches you so intently.
He’s a punctual idol if you’ve ever met one, arriving at 5pm on the dot, expensive-looking sunglasses shielding his eyes from the barely visible sunlight outside, and a black beanie pulled over his head. He looks like he could be a security guard of his own, the all-black attire even more unsettling as he makes his way inside.
There’s a reason you never house clients in your own studio- the reason being it’s small. It’s office-sized, large glass windows on one side of the wall that overlook a sea of greenery that’s now overgrown with all the recent rains. The floor is gray concrete, stained just about everywhere with swatches of paint and charcoal pieces. And the two tabled surfaces that are available are covered in art supplies, the color of the furniture now indistinguishable as they house tubes of paint, brushes and cans of thinner.
“You can put your bag on the chair there,” you say as he walks in, his hands still shoved in his pockets.
He does as told, setting a designer crossbody on the folding chair by one of the tables, and then he stands confidently, observing the room as he awaits further instruction.
He takes long strides around the perimeter of the room, leaning closely into the existing canvases to study your techniques. But he says nothing, remaining much quieter than last time, the only sound coming from his heeled boots as he moves elegantly around the studio.
“I’m ready,” you say, and Hyunjin turns around to face you. He cocks his head slightly, and then he brings one hand up to pull the beanie off his head, letting his brown tresses fall loosely around his handsome face, not requiring much adjustment as they seem to fall in disarray so perfectly. He pulls his sunglasses off as well, folding them between his plump lips before tucking them into the pocket of his jeans as he finally stops to look at you.
He looks as handsome as he always does, his unreal features looking as though he was modeled by a painting and not the other way around. You feel small in front of him, and unimportant, as he approaches you and stops just in front of your much smaller figure.
“How do you want me?” Hyunjin asks, cuffing up the sleeves of his black knit sweater.
“It’s up to you,” you reply to him, giving a small shrug as you speak.
“This one’s your call,” Hyunjin retorts. “I want it from the artist’s vision.”
And you can’t help the blush that creeps up on your cheeks, feeling embarrassingly flustered at the idea of someone caring even slightly about your vision. Everything’s from your client’s vision- the outfits, the poses, even the adjustments they request following the painting’s unveiling. It’s very seldom that you’re able to provide any directions to the standard of your vision, and though it’s unexpected, it’s a little endearing.
“My vision?” You echo, tapping your fingers on your chin.
You glance around the room at the supplies you have on hand, nothing special, but definitely materials you can work with.
Without replying to him, you pull forward one of the folding chairs, setting it down in front of your easel and gesturing to it.
“Could you sit on the top part? Like, on the back of the chair?”
Hyunjin nods, climbing up onto the chair and balancing as he takes a seat on the back part. It’s a little unstable looking, but Hyunjin seems to manage just fine, spreading his legs casually and running his hands through his hair.
“Your hands,” you chime in, taking note of the silver watch he flaunts on his left wrist. “Could you rest them on your knees?”
“Like this?” Hyunjin questions, sprawling his palms out over his kneecaps.
“Not quite,” you reply. “A little more like…”
And then without warning, you take both his hands in yours, positioning his elbows to rest atop his kneecaps so that his hands hang loosely in front of him. He cocks his face up to meet your gaze, the same intense expression he always houses, and you take a step back to admire the position.
“Exactly like that,” you say to him. “Tell me if you get uncomfortable and we’ll take a break.”
Hyunjin shoots a small smile, perhaps more of a smirk at you, as he sits still and watches you begin to paint in long strokes along the canvas. Your movements are fluid and impetuous, but every stroke proves itself more robust than the last, painting a clear outline of Hyunjin’s seated figure as he keeps his eyes on you. And maybe it’s because you’ve chosen his pose this time, or because it’s your third time doing this with Hyunjin, but you don’t feel nearly as uncomfortable anymore, keeping your attention on the painting and disregarding any implications that might derive from his cold stare.
“I wasn’t sure which brand of oil paints you preferred,” Hyunjin says suddenly. “So I bought you three kinds.”
“Oh, yeah,” you reply softly. “Thank you for the gifts. You really didn’t have to.”
“You have a talent,” Hyunjin voices. “I hung the last one up in my own studio.”
“You have a studio?” You question, remembering Q had previously mentioned something about him being an artist.
“I do,” Hyunjin answers. “It’s nothing like this one, just some canvases in the shared dorm we have. But I paint in all my free time. If I wasn’t here right now, I’d probably be painting.”
“That’s interesting,” you reply. “I’d love to see your work someday.
And Hyunjin doesn’t hesitate to pull his phone out, navigating to his camera roll to show you some of his pieces. He flashes you a painting of a bouquet of roses, placed in a glass case atop a table. Another showcases a city street, scribbled cars and people that line the pavement. And a whole gallery of them depict people- couples, in particular, in all sorts of romantic poses. Kissing, hugging, embracing with such passion and force, almost consuming each other with their visible desperation for one another.
“They’re beautiful,” you say, in awe at the technique of his art. You weren’t expecting him to be so good, for someone who doesn’t paint as a full-time career.
“Thank you,” Hyunjin replies, stuffing his phone back into his pocket. “I’ve learned so much from you.”
“Me?” You retort with a small chuckle. “I highly doubt that, your stuff is very unique. But I’m flattered that you’d say that. Thank you.”
Hyunjin keeps his gaze on yours for a moment, cocking his head to the side as though he’s observing your features. He doesn’t say anything, his eyes narrowing and widening again as he takes in the sight of you dabbing a little more olive paint into his complexion. And then he straightens his back, steadying himself on the chair with two hands gripping the sides.
“When was the last time you left this studio?” He inquires with a smug expression. He sounds a little more serious now, and his tone of voice makes your heartbeat race.
“I don’t live here,” you reply plainly. “I leave every day.”
“When was the last time you escaped?” He then clarifies. “When was the last time you weren’t confined here for the purposes of work?”
You furrow your brows, trying your best to keep busy with your task and avert his gaze.
“This is my job,” you say sternly. “I don’t want to escape.”
“I’m a dancer,” Hyunjin states matter-of-factly. “I don’t live in the studio at the building. Sure, the bright lights and the walls of mirrors help with the choreography. But sometimes I dance in my dorm. And sometimes I dance in a big grass field when nobody’s watching.”
You pause your brushstrokes for a moment, finally meeting his gaze as he stares down at you. He raises one eyebrow, waiting for an answer, which you fail to provide him with as he leans forward once again and clasps his hands together.
“You feel trapped here, don’t you?”
And suddenly his words infuriate you, the sheer audacity of him to walk into your studio demanding all these rules from you, like your boundaries can be overlooked if they’re bought. And who is he to pry into your life like this, knowing next to nothing about you except that you’re a painter? It’s blasphemous- offensive, even.
“I’m not trapped,” you say, standing from your stool and backing away from him a little. “I love my job. I can quit whenever I want to, and this is my passion.”
“Who are you when you’re not painting these portraits?” Hyunjin inquires, and your eyebrows contort into a much angrier frown.
“Who are you to imply any of this, anyway? You’re an idol. You’re the one who’s trapped in the confines of a million rules- are you even allowed to be here right now? Who are you when you’re not putting on the mask of a completely different persona?”
You exhale frustratedly as you finish, taking a moment to catch your breath, and trying your best to avoid his gaze. But when you meet his piercing eyes again, he’s smiling, a wicked expression on his face like he’s amused at your lashing.
“I’m glad you asked ,” he says simply.
“What?”
“I’d assumed it was part of your vision, to maybe scratch below the surface of the flesh outlines you paint. I know there’s more than meets the eye to your work. You have this passion about you.”
“Passion?” You reply nervously, now fiddling with the brush still in your grasp.
“Mhm,” Hyunjin responds casually. “Like you want to lash out. Go on, get it off your chest. I won’t mind.”
And you say nothing again, shrinking back into the confines of your wooden stool as you swirl the brush around in the same mug of water and dip it back into a dollop of paint.
“I’m sorry,” you voice to him. “I don’t treat my clients like this. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
Hyunjin’s shoulders sag a little, as though he was waiting for you to keep the chaos alive in this little studio. He just nods, and then he assumes the same position as earlier, his knees spread in front of him and his hands resting comfortably on his knee caps as he slouches forward.
You resume the task of shading in his skin tone, adding highlights to the elevated portions of his face and glancing over at him in intervals to confirm where the light hits him.
“I’ve learned so much from you,” Hyunjin says for the second time tonight, and you’re still unsure what he means by it. “I think we could learn a lot about each other.”
And the studio falls silent for the remainder of the session, as he allows his eyes to bore into your soul while you translate his being onto the canvas in front of you. Or at least the parts that are able to be translated.
*
Your calendar is blocked off for the remainder of the week for other clients, Hyunjin rescheduling his sessions as he prepares for a performance overseas.
Your heart sinks a little when Q announces the schedule change to you, secretly praying you haven’t completely ruined your artist/client relationship with Hyunjin. He’s definitely a little odd, and he can be pushy when he wants to be. But he’s undeniably more intriguing than the investors you’re used to housing at the studio, telling you stories of his dancing and inquiring about all your favorite techniques every chance he gets.
He’s the first client who’s ever uttered the word “vision” when it came to yours, and not his, and you can’t let go of the value it added to your last session with him. You had yelled at him, ordered him to stop projecting his thoughts onto yours and asking personal questions. But it was the first time you felt alive, somewhat visible to a client as you painted them. His eyes pierce through your soul, every tangible inch of it, and not just the empty shell of who you are when you’re not existing so loudly. And Hyunjin seems like the only catalyst that allows you to exist loudly these days, even Q walking all over you like you’re an extension of his tedious ways.
Although your last conversation didn’t go quite as smoothly as you’d hoped it would, Hyunjin’s words continue to circle your mind relentlessly, your heart trying to make sense of them no matter how hard you try.
“Who are you when you’re not painting these portraits?”
It’s a fair question, and it doesn’t necessarily have to be a discourteous one, either. Maybe he’s genuinely curious about the woman you are when you’re not following Q’s orders. But where has Hyunjin pulled the implication from that you’re anyone except for the person assigned to produce these portraits? You’ve given him no reason to think anything of you besides the well-mannered, focused painter you are. And to imply anything else would also, by extension, imply he knows something about you.
“I’ve learned so much about you,” he had also said to you, twice in the same session. And can one really learn from two, three sessions of watching an artist paint? Sure, if he was more focused on your technique and your mannerisms rather than staring at you so intensely. But he hadn’t seemed to be interested in much else, simply keeping his gaze on yours and asking base-level questions about your artist career.
If anything, you could learn a lot about Hyunjin, who has the whole world at his disposal and walks around this place like he owns it. He speaks of you like he’s trying to study you. He wants to learn from you, despite being the one wielding much more knowledge and wisdom than you could even begin to fathom. True, you don’t escape this studio- and you don’t utilize it without the intention to work. In fact, your work consumes you most days, your personal life just a microscopic dot in the grand scheme of this arrangement.
But Hyunjin seems to think otherwise, his generous gifts and his fascination with returning seeming to imply something else. Like he wants to learn from you, or like he’s convinced he already has.
In apprehension, like he knows you.
*
“Where are we going?” You query when Hyunjin arrives next, quickly ordering you to gather your supplies and ushering you to the door.
“We’re not painting here today,” he says plainly.
“What? No, Hyunjin I don’t paint anywhere except for-”
“The studio or a company,” he finishes. “That’s the issue. I want to take you somewhere more lively.”
“I can’t be around people,” you respond. “I don’t… it’ll just mess up the whole process.”
“Do you trust me?” Hyunjin asks suddenly, his hand extending out to yours for the briefcase you grasp.
What a simplified question- absolutely not. You don’t trust him, that’s the issue with leaving the studio. You’re still not sure of his career as a whole, you’re not sure why he’s so adamant about breaking all sorts of rules and you don’t know anything beyond his name.
“No,” you reply. “I don’t think I trust you at all, actually.”
And Hyunjin just smiles, stepping forward to take the briefcase from you.
“Good,” he replies, the same amused smile plastered on his face. “That means there’s still a lot I can teach you.”
He watches you slip on your coat, undeniably confused, but in a trance-like state obeying his commands, like your heart won’t let you hear your brain’s protests.
Hyunjin doesn’t drive. He doesn’t need to, having his own personal chauffeur at his beck and call, able to go just about anywhere in the evening during his allotted hours of free time. Ones he normally spends in the studio, watching you paint.
You sit quietly on one side of the fancy black car, your hands folded neatly in your lap and staring at the passing blur of city lights out the window. Hyunjin occupies the other, one of his slender hands resting atop the briefcase in an attempt to steady it whilst the driver makes sharp turns and brakes a little too harshly.
You watch as the city roads turn to one long paved road, surrounded by tall grass and trees. And this path goes on for a while, maybe 20 or 30 minutes, as you remain in comfortable silence. The driver seems to be acquainted with the road, turning every way he needs to, no form of navigation telling where to go, simply having memorized the route. And Hyunjin doesn’t seem tense in the slightest, humming softly to himself as he taps his fingers along the leather surface of the briefcase.
The fork at the end of the road signals the stopping point for the driver, who hits the brakes, but doesn’t turn the car off. The keys remain in the ignition as he comes around to open your door, guiding you out with one hand and bowing graciously to the both of you.
“One hour,” Hyunjin says to him, sliding him a generously folded bill.
The driver nods, occupying his spot in the driver’s seat, and you watch him make a U-turn before driving off down the path again.
The environment is quiet, much quieter than any spot back in the city. It’s nothing except for trees and tall grass that sway with the gentle evening breeze, the sky swallowing up a now orange sun as nighttime begins to over both of you. If you squint, you can even see the mountains from here, some of them lined with little yellow lights, probably vacant buildings or farm workers. And the birds sing their last songs of the day, mellow tunes that harmonize with the growing chirps of crickets.
“It’s pretty here,” you remark to Hyunjin, who stands looking out at the view with his hands tucked in his coat pockets.
He doesn’t reply for a moment, his long hair swaying with the breeze. And then he tilts his head in the direction of the briefcase, nodding once.
“Paint what you see,” he orders.
You nod reluctantly, scrambling to open the briefcase and set up your supplies.
“Do you want to stand there? Or… do you prefer something else?”
He smiles, a little amused at your rushed state, and then he shakes his head.
“Not me,” he clarifies. “The view. Paint what you see.”
You swallow a lump in your throat, stopping your movements and pondering the words for a moment. You haven’t painted a view in god knows how long. Your skills are rusty, your techniques are skewed and the whole concept of it makes you shudder.
“The view?” You question back. You take a moment to look at the view again- there are possibilities everywhere. Green grasses that resemble paint strokes themselves, a deepening blue sky with strokes of blues and blacks, stars like paint splatters and trees with sponge-painted bushels. The art is everywhere, the possibilities are vast and endless with a view like this one.
“The view,” Hyunjin echoes. “Don’t take it too seriously. This isn’t some company's order to paint me. I just want to see the world through your eyes.”
And you nod, once, Hyunjin helping you latch your sketch pad to the easel as you mix a myriad of blues and greens together on your wooden palette.
He flips through your sketch pad for a little while before stepping away, nodding at the pages upon pages of art unlike any of your portraits. When you think he’s going to move, he doesn’t, remaining in the same spot and nodding his head at the works. And you feel a little shy, a little confused at why he’s taken so much interest in the work you complete on the side, work completely unrelated to any of your portraits. When he reaches a blank page, he meets your gaze with a small smile, nodding his head once at you as he finally moves out of the way.
And then you finally begin, hesitantly, as Hyunjin finds a spot in an undisturbed part of the grass, sprawling his long legs out in front of him and pulling out a sketch pad from his own bag. He angles it away from you, beginning to make long, generous lines with his charcoal pencil, peering over at the trees every now and then to gauge their shape. And you remain there, a comfortable silence among both of you, as you both capture the view in your respective visions.
The technique comes back to you instantly, like motion memory, quickly sponging leaves into the trees and pulling the dark sky from its draped position over you to plaster it onto the canvas you work on. Blues, greens, glittering whites for the night stars and fantastic shades of chartreuse and viridian find their homes on the canvas, so carefully placed and mirroring the view you overlook. You emulate the shadows, the waning glints of light, even the sounds seem to live on the picturesque view where time stands still in the confines of four walls.
Hyunjin doesn’t disturb your work flow- in fact, for most of the time you remain there, you cease to remember he’s even working on a sketch of his own, his delicate figure disappearing among the trees as your peripherals shut him out and bring nature to the forefront.
It’s only an hour you’re there, like Hyunjin had promised, before he’s returning to your spot and standing behind you to look over your shoulder.
“Beautiful,” Hyunjin states dramatically. “Beautiful, and spectacular, and shining.”
You chuckle lightly, wiping the brush on your smock and tucking it away in one of the front pockets.
“Will you sign it?” Hyunjin asks, cocking his head a little to try to find where your signature currently sits, but finding nothing.
“Oh, yeah,” you respond, bringing a charcoal pencil to the bottom right and scribbling a quick signature.
He scans the painting once more, tracing a finger over the corner where you’ve added your signature, and then he gives a small nod before meeting your gaze.
“This one’s my favorite,” Hyunjin tells you. “Because it’s entirely your vision.”
“The ones I make of you are my vision, too,” you explain, and Hyunjin shakes his head with a small smile.
“I like how you see the world. Not how you see me. Or anybody else, for that matter.”
And you find yourself blushing again, unsure if his intention is to fluster you with his poetic words, but well aware that he’s having the effect on you regardless.
“Thank you,” you echo politely. “I like this one, too.”
Your gazes remain fixed on each other for a brief moment, the grass now standing still as the night falls over you, stars glittering in the black sky and the crickets singing their nocturnal songs.
For the first time since meeting him, Hyunjin looks less cold at this proximity to you, his entire demeanor exuding softness and comfort as he smiles at you. Maybe it’s the black puffer coat he wears, the collar pulled up to his chin to keep warm from the frigid winter night around you. He wears his glasses, too, these ones a thicker black frame, pushed high up on his face and a little dorky, admittedly. But it’s also because he seems kinder, more warm and welcoming. There’s no existing rush to capture him any which way- in fact, there’s no pressure to capture him at all. And maybe when you’re not translating his model-like appearance onto canvas, you’re able to step back and admire that he’s soft under his hard exterior, he’s so gentle and human.
At first, you debate telling him, a sudden urge inside of you to apologize for your presumptions of him and admit that he’s slowly become your favorite client to be around. Maybe he’s right- maybe you do have a lot you can teach each other. He lives a life of lavishness, entertaining varying aspects of his idol career and serving a role of great importance to those who know him. And he is certainly of importance to your career, being your highest-paying customer and the one you’ve painted the most now. But he plays a role in other parts of your life too, allowing you to try new techniques, entertain your vision, circling your mind with his poetic words and his strategic motions. All lessons which allow you to grow outside the confines of your studio, too.
But you settle on silence, not wanting Hyunjin to think too boldly of you. Maybe he’s like this with everybody he crosses paths with. Choreographers, vocal coaches and painters alike. Maybe he’s simply as fascinating as he looks.
As you study him again, the sound of a car engine interrupts you, and you turn around to find Hyunjin’s driver has returned as promised. You bring a hand up to shield your eyes from the bright headlights that illuminate the whole field, as Hyunjin helps you gather your supplies again, securing the canvas in its case and transporting it into the backseat of the car with the driver’s help.
Hyunjin holds the door for you this time, ushering you inside, and then he comes around to slide into the backseat next to you.
“I think it’s going to rain,” the driver says as he puts the car in reverse.
You crane your neck to look at the sky through the tinted windows, dark blue clouds that loom overhead and seem to make the night even colder.
“I have one more place we need to stop at,” Hyunjin says suddenly, sitting forward to make eye contact with the driver through the mirror.
The driver nods in response, as if the last location is a secret kept between them, as he begins down the dirt path again in silence.
*
“Ever been here?” Hyunjin questions, as he holds out a hand to guide you up the stairs. The steep concrete stairs lead to a grand crested marble doorway, a bronze statue out in front and dimly lit lamp posts that illuminate the sign overhead.
Museum of Modern Art.
“Once, a long, long time ago,” you respond. “I think I usually steer clear from galleries since I don’t show my work at them.”
Hyunjin chuckles softly, stopping at the front door and meeting the gaze of a security guard, who promptly strides over and opens the door just an inch.
Hyunjin pulls out an ID, and a folded paper of some sort, and you watch as the security examines it briefly before nodding. It’s only then that you realize the museum is closed for the evening, the only person around behind the night security, but of course that rule doesn’t apply to Hyunjin, who can get in just about anywhere with the flash of a smile.
“It’s the only way to visit with no one else around,” Hyunjin says, confirming your theory. “They let me stay as long as I want. Sometimes I draw here.”
You nod at his words, giving a small smile as the security eyes you intensely, and then he opens the door to guide both of you inside. Hyunjin removes his coat, slinging it over a nearby coat hanger, and he flaunts a white knit sweater with his dark jeans, looking cozy in contrast to the dark winter night outside. He holds your sketch pad tucked under one arm, and then he skips excitedly to a room behind a curtain.
“This one’s my favorite!” He exclaims, giggling softly like a child might. “Do you know they’re all made out of recycled materials?”
And you brush the curtain aside, being met with the sculptures he speaks of, neutral-toned figurines that appear to be made of paper mache, all resembling people. Their forms hold each other, mimic ballroom dancing, and even embrace each other in a tender kiss as they stand tall in the center of the room.
You watch as Hyunjin snaps a few photos with his cellphone, craning his neck to view them at a better angle, and then he turns to face you.
“What do you think?” Hyunjin asks.
“They’re beautiful,” you reply. “They kind of remind me of your drawings.”
He shoots you a flustered smile in response, touched that you’ve even remembered what his drawings look like. And then he graciously bows as he ushers to another room.
“I think you’ll like the next one.”
The next room behind another dark curtain is a gallery of paintings, all of them abstract forms of art that experiment with different colors and mediums. You take a while in this room, sauntering down the row of canvases and observing how each one captures something completely different from the others. Some include only cool-toned shades, their strokes much smaller and overall more somber. Some play with warm tones, long generous strokes that capture passion and heat. And some mix both, two stories dancing in harmony on one canvas, contrasting light with shadow and love with regret.
As you cock your head slightly, observing the way the colors are so evocative from this proximity, Hyunjin comes to stand next to you, cocking his head in a similar fashion and taking in the same details that you do. And if someone were to stand behind you, maybe both of you would mirror the painting, too, two hues of life and recluse working in perfect harmony alongside each other.
“Nice, isn’t it?” Hyunjin asks, and you hum in response.
“Yeah. I love these colors.”
Hyunjin nods, giving the painting a last once-over before nodding in the direction of another curtain.
“Come on, I want to show you this last one.”
The last room houses a little bench, where Hyunjin occupies the left side and pats the spot next to him. You take a seat, your hands folded neatly in your lap, as you observe the colossal painting in front of you.
It’s a watercolor painting, one amorphous shape at a far distance, yet at this proximity, the tangible outline of a figure, sat with legs pulled to the chest and crouched in a position evoking such sadness.
The cold blue hues highlight the shadows which define body parts among the pile of limbs, the curve of a breast, the almost indistinguishable outline of a leg, aspects you have to really squint hard to make out. But the colors complement each other so artistically, and the figure in the painting looks so melancholy, so longing for something more than the confines of the canvas she lives on.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Hyunjin voices, and you nod, swallowing as you remain quiet.
He pauses for a moment, his voice hitching in the back of his throat, before speaking again.
“The artist was a child prodigy,” he begins. “Apparently they painted all their life and then became a sort of recluse into adulthood. No one’s seen a painting from them since. This was their last big project.”
“Interesting,” you remark quietly.
“Yeah,” Hyunjin replies. “And their art is always titled around themes of loneliness and solitude. Every painting kind of feels like a puzzle piece leading up to their disappearance from the art world.”
Hyunjin says nothing as your eyes dart around the room, swallowing nervously as you ponder what to say. And nothing comes to mind, nothing that won’t make you seem crazy, or irate.
And then before you can protest his actions, he flips open your sketch pad he’s kept tucked under his arm all this time, flipping through a few pages until he’s nearly at the end. He stops at one of your paintings, cool aqua hues filling the paper in the same manner as the one hung on the wall.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” Hyunjin finally says, and you realize he’s turned to face you now.
You stand up at this point, smoothing down your blouse and turning away from his gaze.
“Sorry, I have to go-”
You search for an exit, unable to locate one amidst the dark curtains and the dimly lit room. And the only thing you can think to do is walk back the way you entered, beginning back through the abstract painting gallery as Hyunjin follows behind you.
“They’re amazing,” Hyunjin says. “You have a talent. Your paintings were always my favorite-”
“Please, stop,” you interrupt, your heart beating erratically as you make your way past the paper mache sculptures.
“Why did you stop making them?” He asks, now standing still in the entrance, the security guard on high alert as he watches Hyunjin’s stressed demeanor.
“Sorry,” you voice to the security guard, bowing to him. “I have to go, thank you so much.”
And without turning to look at Hyunjin, you push the doors open, making your way out of the museum and onto the concrete steps. It’s raining now, hard, like the driver had predicted, and you march right past his parked car to one of the taxis parked by the curb.
The cab driver takes an address from you, punching it into his navigation system as he begins to drive down the street, and you pray he can’t hear the quiet sniffles coming from you in the backseat.
As he pulls away from the curb, you glance out the window at the museum, where Hyunjin’s now shoving past the door and standing still, his hands dropped at his sides and a hurt expression on his face.
His hair falls damp around his face as he lets the sheets of rain wash over him, his driver exiting the vehicle in a rush to get Hyunjin back into the safety of the car.
But he remains there, unmoving, his hurt gaze fixed on yours, as you turn a corner and fall out of his sight.
*
And just like the sessions were uneventful before Hyunjin, they’re much more uneventful after him, too.
Putting the sessions on hold for Hyunjin is nothing, his life full of vibrancy and color when he’s not spending an hour or two with you in the evening posing for a painting. It’s time he fills with extra dance practice, vocal training, spending time with his members and even doing art of his own.
But for you, it means returning to a life of mediocrity, requesting stock brokers to angle their big heads in a more appealing manner so you can capture every one of their unsightly features. You’re ogled at by salesmen, disrespected by accountants and not a single one of them could give a shit about your vision.
A part of you wants to call Hyunjin and apologize, to explain that he was out of line in his approach to identify you and catch you so off-guard. But you’re mostly angry at him, for having ruined something so beautiful you took pride in every week. Now he’s gone, the sessions put on pause until further notice and your life forever changed by Hyunjin, though he’ll keep living his life of lavishness despite being the source of all your pain.
“Now that we don’t have Hyunjin on the books after this week, I need you to resume the work on Mr. Lee’s painting. Let’s not lose sight of the ones we started prior to his pieces,” Q says, as he flips through a clipboard of printed schedules.
“This week?” You echo in question. “I thought sessions with Hyunjin were put on hold until further notice.”
“They were,” he responds. “After your last session this week. He’ll be here tomorrow evening. He’s your last client of the day.”
“Tomorrow?” You repeat, pausing your brush strokes as you turn to look at him. “He requested to come in tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” Q replies with furrowed brows. “Why, is there a problem? I already told him yes.”
“No, that’s fine,” you reply, rotating the brush around in your fingers as you think over his words. “Tomorrow works fine.”
Despite the sessions being put on hold, you’ll still have a moment to explain yourself to Hyunjin and make amends. It might not get you exactly where you were before all of this, but the thought of letting Hyunjin part ways thinking you despise him makes your stomach turn. You’ll still get a moment alone with him to rekindle the state of your friendship.
… Or so you thought. When you arrive at the studio the next day for your last session, Q is still there, organizing papers at one of the tables and still dressed in a fancy blazer and tie like he never left from this morning’s session.
“Quinton?” You call, setting your purse down and toying with the hem of your shirt.
“Yes?” He responds, not looking up at you.
“Are you… don’t you normally sit these sessions out?”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” he says casually. “I’ll be sitting in on this last one. I know they were put on hold pretty abruptly, and I wanted to be around for your last one.”
You give him a small nod, protesting his actions mentally. You won’t get a minute alone with Hyunjin after all- not with Q watching you like a hawk. You want to scream at him, to tell him he has to leave and that he’ll be permanently disrupting the client-artist relationship you’ve developed with your highest-paying customer if he stays and taints the room with his overwhelming presence. But he largely determines the success of your career, whether you like it or not. And requesting Q’s absence will most certainly point to something more going on between you and Hyunjin.
“Right,” you reply. “That’s fine.”
You wish Quinton wouldn’t be so… mechanical. You wish he could trust that you’ll get the job done, despite any existing tensions between you and Hyunjin. You wish he wouldn’t pretend to care about being present, when in reality you know he just wants to make sure it wasn’t you who screwed something up. And you wish he would leave you alone with Hyunjin to make amends the way you know you need to before you part ways with him.
When the door opens once again, you both turn your heads to look at Hyunjin, who strolls in with casual strides, his hands stuffed in his pockets. His gaze falls on Q, and he furrows his brows together, finally looking at you, with a confused expression on his face.
“Welcome!” Q says obnoxiously. “I’ll be sitting in for this session, I hope you don’t mind.”
Hyunjin shoots him a thin-lipped smile, giving a subtle nod as he slings his bag off.
“Sure,” he replies. “That’s fine.”
He assumes his spot on the same wooden stool, crossing his legs and folding his hands in his lap, and then he turns to meet your gaze.
“How do you want me?” Hyunjin asks. He sounds more somber than the other times he’d asked the same question, his voice trailing off a little as he waits for a reply.
“This is good,” you say, taking your own seat and beginning to work light strokes across the canvas. You start with his jawline, the same chiseled jawline you’ve gotten so used to painting, working a robust angle where the crook of his neck meets his cheeks. Then his eyes, the piercing intensity of them, narrowing involuntarily as he poses with such skill, the same eyes which have graced the covers of magazines and album covers. His lips, plump and rosy, forming a small pout as he remains silent. And the outline of his luscious brown tresses, which fall beautifully around his face and soften the rest of his features.
He looks so enchanting this evening, like he’s straight out of one of the paintings at the museum. And your anger feels almost completely dissipated once he’s in front of you like this, just a pressing urge to be alone with him so you can communicate properly.
“Looking good,” Q says as he comes up behind you, his hands folded behind his back.
Hyunjin’s eyes dart over at Q’s standing figure, glancing over at you again while you paint. You attempt to shoot him an apologetic expression, wanting to tell him it wasn’t your idea to have Q here watching your every move. But you can’t properly convey your emotions to him with Q practically breathing down your neck.
“Beautiful work”, Q chimes in, nodding as you add the color to Hyunjin’s hair.
You can feel yourself getting frustrated with him, wishing so badly you could at least ask him to wait on the other side of the room like he normally does. But he remains there, crowding around you as you work and filling the room with his awkward presence.
“I’ll drag up a chair,” Q says with a small chuckle. “So I don’t have to stand.”
And both you and Hyunjin watch as he pulls up a folding chair, dragging it along the floor in one painfully slow motion, the sound of the legs screeching against the concrete floor as he places it next to you and takes a seat.
Hyunjin’s eyes meet yours again, cocking his head slightly as though he’s asking why you’ve allowed Q to be so overbearing today. But none of this is according to your plans, either.
“Go on,” Q urges. “You don’t have to wait for me.”
You hadn’t even realized you’ve stopped painting, grasping your brush between your fingers as you watch Q adjust in his seat and gesture to the painting.
“I think we should take a break,” Hyunjin says finally. “My leg is cramping a little.”
“Of course,” Q echoes back. “We can take five. There’s a vending machine out by the front door. And the bathrooms are on the right, by the-”
Q can’t even finish his sentence before Hyunjin’s shoving his way past the door, taking long strides away from the studio and waiting outside. He pinches the bridge of his nose in deep annoyance, letting out a deep sigh as he ponders the evening’s events so far.
“I’m going to use the restroom,” you tell Q, setting your brush down and following Hyunjin. “I’ll be right back.”
And you follow his footsteps, pushing on the door to meet him outside, where he stands with one hand on his hip, the other massaging his temples frustratedly.
He looks angry, as you predict he would be, but you approach him anyway, fiddling with your thumbs as he stays quiet for a moment.
“I organized this last session to speak with you,” Hyunjin says in an annoyed tone. “I should’ve known you’d invite him.”
“I didn’t invite him,” you say quickly. “I didn’t even know he’d be here, I swear. He just stayed, and he was insistent on sitting in.”
Hyunjin finally drops his hand at his side, meeting your gaze, a softening expression on his face.
“I didn’t mean to scare you off,” he finally says. “I overstepped my boundaries. I’m just here to pay you for art. Not prod into your personal life.”
“I know,” you say back. “I wanted to explain to you, but…” your voice trails off, remembering this is technically your last session with him. And judging by the way everyone speaks of him, it’ll be near impossible to contact him again after this.
“It seems like I missed my chance,” you finish, referencing Q’s persistence.
Hyunjin glances around for a moment at the overgrown plants that line the studio windows, still damp from the evening rain. It looks like a jungle out here, the plants providing no clear view through the windows and instilling such a peaceful sense of privacy.
“Could you stay a little longer?” Hyunjin questions. “After he leaves. I just want to talk to you before I go.”
You think over his proposal for a moment- Quinton is punctual at leaving right past the hour mark. He never stays longer for hours than he needs to, but he’s no stranger to you utilizing the studio to finish up some of your work after hours.
“Sure,” you say finally. “Just pretend you’ve left after the session and I’ll tell him I need to stay longer. Don’t wait near the parking lot or he’ll see you.”
A somber smile grows on Hyunjin’s face as he nods in response.
“I’m going to call my driver and tell him I’ll be longer than the original session. Meet you back inside.”
And you make your way back into the studio, where Q is busy shuffling through papers at the table.
“Ready?” He asks, already taking strides back to his stool, positioned far too close to your canvas and Hyunjin’s seat.
“Yeah,” you reply, sighing a little as he occupies the seat next to you and glances around the room for Hyunjin.
“He’s taking a phone call,” you explain to Q. “Just give him a minute.”
And Q pushes his glasses further up his nose, humming in response as he observes your painting again.
“You’ve really mastered his features,” he comments, scanning over Hyunjin’s painted outline. “Even his eye mole is already there.”
And you scan the painting too, at the little mole painted just below Hyunjin’s left eye as he requested.
“Yeah,” you reply. “I guess I have.”
You wouldn’t forget it, because everything about him occupies your mind, much like his figure lives on your canvases.
*
It’s just half an hour more before you’re finished with Hyunjin’s painting. It’s still lacking some detail, like the contours along his face and the buttons of his cardigan. But they’re all details you give yourself time to finish later, before you wrap up your final piece and gift it to Hyunjin.
Q is relentless in his micromanaging for the remainder of the session, making useless comments about your techniques and asking Hyunjin about his own work. Hyunjin’s answers are all short and echo his clear annoyance, desperate to finish the session in order to speak with you privately. But you both remain collected in your manners, graciously conversing with Q and reaching the end of the session.
Q reviews his invoice documents as Hyunjin slings his bag on once more, standing by the door as though he’s ready to leave.
“Payment was finalized today, and your sessions are on hold until your tour is completed.”
“Thank you,” Hyunjin responds, bowing graciously. “It was a pleasure to work with both of you. I’ll be back when we’re done overseas.”
“Don’t hesitate to reach out!” Q calls, as Hyunjin makes his way past the door. He waves Q off with a small smile and then turns the corner until he’s out of sight.
“Well, there goes your best-paying client,” Q remarks with a deep sigh. “We have a lot more to pick back up on. I know Mr. Lee’s paintings are still in progress-”
“Thank you, Quinton,” you voice to him. “We’ll talk scheduling tomorrow. Please just get home safely.”
“You’re not leaving yet?” He queries, already pulling on his canvas bag and hanging his clipboard from a thumbtack on the wall.
“I’m going to finish the details while I still remember them. I’ll only be an hour longer.”
Q shrugs, making his way pivoting on his white canvas sneakers and giving you a small wave.
“Call if you need anything,” he says plainly. “Make sure to lock up.”
“I will,” you echo, craning your neck as you watch him finally exit past the door and jog down the stairs. You can’t see Hyunjin anywhere, but Q doesn’t seem to notice him if he’s still around, starting his car and speeding out of the parking lot.
And not even a full minute passes before Hyunjin makes his way back inside, shaking water off his hands.
“I stood under one of the gutters,” he says in a disgusted tone. His hair is stringy wet with rain water, and he chuckles when you meet his gaze with an amused smile.
“You’ll have to let me paint it like that, someday,” you respond, and he laughs lightly.
You take a seat on the folding chair previously occupied by Q, and Hyunjin assumes his same spot on the wooden stool. For a moment he says nothing, observing your face as you tap your fingers along the metal of the chair below you. There’s not a sound in the room between the two of you, with the exception of a small creak coming from the wooden stool as Hyunjin adjusts his long legs. He runs his hands through his hair nervously, and then he licks his dry lips with his tongue before speaking.
“I have something for you,” Hyunjin says suddenly, his voice echoing around the empty room.
He stands up to pull his bag off the floor, and then he digs around in it for a moment before pulling out his sketchbook. You watch as his slender fingers open the spiral-bound cover, flipping past pages upon pages of sketches and paintings. He flips close to the end, and then he stops, bookmarking the page with his index finger before turning the book to face you.
“I’m sorry if you don’t like it,” he says, keeping the book shut in anticipation. “It’s just something I drew.”
And then with bated breath, he opens the book out to you, adjusting the page in your view to give you a clear sight of its contents. It’s a carefully drawn sketch, of you, standing in front of an easel with a brush in your hand. Painting, like you always do. You recognize the scenery around you as the spot he took you to the other day, the long charcoal streaks perfectly capturing the grass that surrounded you and the tall trees that overlooked the hills. Although it’s a sight familiar to you, it also feels so foreign, seeing yourself through somebody else’s eyes. It feels peculiar to remember people also perceive you while you paint. It makes you feel less unimportant, a little more visible.
“Wow, Hyunjin, this is…”
“Do you like it?” Hyunjin interrupts.
“It’s so lovely. Really. I feel like I don’t deserve this.”
“You do,” he’s quick to respond. “You’ve drawn countless ones of me. And of so many other people. I wanted to gift you one of your own.”
You run your fingers along the thick paper, watching as Hyunjin tears it along its perforation and hands it to you.
“Please, keep it,” he urges.
And you bow once in response, turning to set the drawing along with your bag so you won’t forget it.
“Thank you,” you finally say. “I love it. I’m going to hang it with all my favorite art.”
Hyunjin smiles in response, a breathy chuckle escaping his lips, and then he shoves his hands in his pockets again, leaning against the wooden stool as a silence falls over you both.
For a moment, you ponder what to say to him, wanting to explain the events from the other evening, but unable to verbalize anything amidst your nervousness. Any way you think about it, you fear Hyunjin is going to get mad, especially considering you’d just walked away from him in the face of confrontation. But you also couldn’t help it, his accusation coming so suddenly and so boldly, regardless of it being based on any sliver of truth.
“I’m sorry,” Hyunjin breaks the silence. “I don’t know if I was right or not. But it wasn’t my place to ask you.”
You nod at him, initially planning to divert the topic. But you can’t any further, a growing urge inside of your chest to unveil the truth to him, knowing he’s already pieced this much of it together.
“It is my painting,” you say finally, your voice shaking a little. “I specialized in those ones before portraits. They kind of gained traction when they were first unveiled, and a lot of galleries picked them up. But they drew a lot of criticism, and it became so draining to be the topic of people’s judgment. I think being perceived so heavily just kind of… scared me off. So I shifted to portraits instead, and I no longer do public showings or galleries.”
Hyunjin doesn’t react in a shocked manner, nor does he press you for questions immediately. He just nods, taking in your words, and then he meets your gaze with a concerned expression.
“I learned so much from you,” he explains. “When your paintings were unveiled at the annual art show across the city, I was so mesmerized. They’re why I started painting, too.”
You chuckle lightly, shrugging at him as you slouch back in your seat.
“Yeah, well, I don’t do them anymore.”
You think over your response for a moment, and then you stand up from your seat, too, furrowing your brows together.
“How did you… know it was me?” You question, cocking your head slightly.
“I had a hunch when I first saw your painting techniques. But I also knew it the moment I saw your other paintings in your sketchbook,” he explains. “My favorite painting of the series is printed out and taped to my locker in our dance studio. It just felt like you. I paid attention to your art for years. I was bound to know it when I saw it.”
You nod for the umpteeth time tonight, making sense of his words as you think back to the signature you drew in front of him back in the field.
“I’m sorry I figured it out,” Hyunjin says finally. “I know this was an elaborate plan to remain anonymous and shift your focus to a new form of your work. And your portraits are amazing. But you have a real talent for those older ones. And the whole series just… it changed me.”
“You don’t have to be sorry,” you tell Hyunjin, looking up to meet his gaze at last. “If anyone was going to find out, I’m glad it was you.”
“You are?” Hyunjin questions, and you hum in response.
“As a client, you have this really interesting way of making me feel seen. When I’m around you, It feels a lot more comfortable from the businessmen I’m used to. It’s like…” your voice trails off as you struggle to finish your sentence. “I feel like I did when I was painting my old stuff. I can see the world beyond just portraits for a little bit.”
Hyunjin says nothing, his eyes flickering down to your lips and back at your eyes once more, which are wide with curiosity and passion as you speak. It’s such a sight to see you talk about your art with this level of devotion again, color in your face once more as you attest to your life’s work.
“Tell me,” Hyunjin begins. “Why are all your paintings so lonely?”
You chuckle softly, shrugging up at him.
“I am lonely,” you say simply.
“I’m lonely, too,” Hyunjin remarks.
And your expression turns serious again, your eyes not leaving his intense gaze as he flickers over your parted lips and takes one step closer to you. He’s towering over you at this point, a strand of hair falling into his face as he lets himself lean into you a little more, just barely grazing his lips over yours.
“Can I please kiss you?” Hyunjin asks so politely, his voice coming out in a whisper as he stops himself from pressing his lips to yours while he waits for an answer.
“Yeah” you finally reply in a whisper of your own, almost on your tippy toes to match his towering height.
And then without another second to waste, Hyunjin closes the gap between both of you, leaning down to press his plump lips to yours and embrace you in a tender, desperate kiss.
He tastes like mint, his lips working against yours with no particular rush, yet his mind still running rampant with thoughts of having you as close as possible. It feels so wrong kissing him here, in the studio you strictly use for the purposes of completing your work-related tasks and nothing more. But with Hyunjin’s lips on yours and his slender hands snaking around the small of your back to pull you closer, it also feels so thrilling, instilling a sense of desire deep within you that can only be fulfilled through acting upon the emotions rooted in your innate fascination with Hyunjin’s entire being.
And you feel visible right now, so tangible when Hyunjin’s nimble hands are running down the sides of your waist and sprawling his delicate fingers along your flesh. It’s you kissing him here, not some shell of who you are when you’re capturing the essences of millionaires on canvas. You’re not the scribbled outlines in Hyunjin’s sketches of couples consuming each other with such passion, though you mirror them. It’s you, child prodigy artist turned portrait specialist, and Hyunjin, in all his fame and splendor, who chooses to spend his free time with you in this studio teaching you about yourself the way you learn from him, too.
Hyunjin’s hands move to tug off the fabric of your cardigan, slouching it off your shoulders and letting it fall to the floor, where it piles in disarray among the white tarp that houses loose paints. You’re pretty sure there may still be wet paint on its surface, but you don’t care, your body desperately arching into Hyunjin’s tall frame as his hands cup your cheeks to kiss you even deeper.
You can barely reach him while his frame looms over you, only able to reciprocate his kisses on the tips of your toes as he takes full control of you with his mouth. And Hyunjin seems to take notice of this, intertwining his hands in yours and pulling you down with him as he sits among the tarp and sprawls his legs out in front of him. You bestride his lean figure, balancing yourself on his lap as he adjusts himself on the concrete floor, and you both laugh when you take note of the admittedly uncomfortable positioning. It’s not meant for lovers, this dinky studio and its cold, concrete flooring. But it’s nothing that can’t be overlooked when his lips are back on yours, kissing you breathlessly and tucking strands of hair behind your ears. You can feel him smiling into the kiss, an indication by Hyunjin’s definition that he’s wanted this so badly. And he knew it from the moment you walked into the company building the first time, nervously preparing yourself out in the hallway like you weren’t going to be an absolute pro at your craft the way he now knows you are. He also knew it every time he observed your paintings, both your old ones and the newer ones that capture Hyunjin with such ease, every minute detail that builds up his intense stare only to break him down and soften him, translating this multifaceted version of him only you seem to visualize. And he gains confirmation of it when he’s finally acting upon his urges, your hands snaking around the back of his neck and moving in tandem with his hungry kisses against yours, grasping at his flesh like you’re trying to prove to yourself he’s real, too.
His sweater is the second article of clothing to go, your bodies only separating from one another briefly as you guide the knit fabric off over him and discard it beside you in the tarp. Your hands find his torso reluctantly, running your fingers along his flesh as though asking for his permission. And Hyunjin smiles when you do, placing his hands over yours and pressing down a little firmer for you, so that you can feel every inch of his toned body. He wields the body of a dancer, delicate curves that run along his sculpted obliques and highlight the years of intense training he’s done. His body feels strong underneath you, but he still feels soft, his touches exuding the gentle fondness he possesses for you.
And you’re kissing him again, all while his hands find your tank top and he separates to undress you, pulling it off over your head and tossing it aside. His hands are quick to find your breasts, splaying them over the mounds of your chest and massaging gently as his kisses turn hungrier. You can feel him getting hard underneath you, and you can hear his breath hitching in the back of his throat as he struggles to contain his growing bulge while you straddle him. But you indulge him even further, undoing the clasp of your bra with your own hand as you continue kissing him. Hyunjin doesn’t notice until your hand reaches out to toss your bra aside, a gentle rustle emitting from beside you as it joins the pile of discarded articles of clothing. And he separates to take in the sight of you, raised goosebumps along your bare skin and your nipples aroused for him, the cold air grazing over your chest as you wait for him to resume his touches. Hyunjin gasps a little, leaning forward to take one in his mouth, and then he begins to suck harshly as his tongue swirls around your bud generously and trails saliva along your skin. You moan at the sensation, Hyunjin digging his fingernails into the small of your back and leaving little crescent marks as his sucking resumes harshly, soft moans bubbling from the back of his throat, too, as he stays latched to you. And then he pulls away to give attention to the other one, his teeth grazing the tip of your nipple before sucking again, his eyes shutting as he relishes in the taste of your skin in his mouth. Hyunjin’s hips rock gently against you as he does, chasing the friction of your legs around his crotch as he grows even harder beneath you, desperate for some release. And then he pulls away finally, breathing heavily, his eyes wide with lust and a bead of sweat dripping down his forehead. You bring a thumb to his forehead, swiping the bead off his blushed skin, before cupping your hands around his cheeks and bringing him in for a kiss.
“Please let me fuck you,” Hyunjin says sheepishly against your lips, groaning lightly when he feels you squeeze your thighs once against his crotch.
“You want to?” You ask teasingly, massaging your hands up and down the sides of his neck as he nods eagerly.
“I really, really want to,” Hyunjin responds, shutting his eyes as you squeeze your legs again and pepper his face in kisses, trailing from his forehead, to his cheeks and down his neck. Hyunjin leans back on the palms of his hands in a state of pure bliss, taking in the sensation he’s only dreamt of until now. And when you nibble down on his neck, beginning to suck a small bruise into his skin, he sits up suddenly, his hands finding yours and pushing you away gently.
“Wait,” Hyunjin says. “I can’t… do hickeys. Company’s orders,” he admits, a little defeated, and you nod your head quickly.
“I’m sorry,” you remark. “I totally forgot.”
“It’s okay,” Hyunjin almost cuts you off with a kiss, leaning forward and sitting up on his knees. He guides you down onto the tarp, hoisting himself up over you so that his figure is now hovering over yours, and then his hands find your pants.
“You can do hickeys though,” Hyunjin says in an amused tone, trailing kisses down your neck the same way you did him, and latching his teeth onto your flesh to suck a line of purple bruises. You chuckle underneath him, the sensation tickling a little, but still adding to the generous pool already formed between your legs. And as Hyunjin presses into you with his kisses, you can feel his erection graze your upper thigh, once more seeking the friction of your body for some sense of relief as he longs to feel you around his hardened cock.
“Hyunjin,” you voice as he kisses you, and he hums quietly in response.
“You’re hard,” you remark, your eyes flickering to the tent pitched underneath his jeans.
“Sorry,” he replies, pulling away with a worried expression in his eyes, and you shake your head quickly.
“No, no, it’s fine,” you assure. “I just want to take care of it for you.”
And your hands find your own jeans, pulling them off your legs and tossing them aside. Hyunjin’s eyes skim over your lace panties, the trim almost see through with delicate feminine patterns, and he begins to undo the button of his jeans, too.
He kisses you as he snakes off his own pants, not wanting to separate from you any more as his eagerness grows to be as close to you as possible. And when he’s finally letting his hard cock rub against the fabric of your panties, moaning softly at the sensation, he knows he won’t be able to take it much longer if he doesn’t make love to you right here in the studio.
So his hands work to pull off his boxers, finally freeing his erection against his abdomen and gasping with the cool air grazes the tip of his cock. You slide off your own panties as well, tossing them aside and letting his cock rest against your bare flesh now, his precum painting your clit with his preemptive arousal as he ruts against you. Your flesh is slick with his arousal and yours, the existing lube between both of you allowing your skin to glide upon one another so effortlessly, the same way your lips work against each other. And he continues to push his hardened length against you until he’s halfway inside of you, your cunt taking him with no struggle as he thrusts inside of you now. You adjust to his thick girth easily, his length seemingly never ending as he pushes deeper and deeper into you. And then he gives one particularly hard thrust, bottoming out inside of you and coaxing a fervent moan out of you.
“Is it okay?” Hyunjin asks, wincing at the sensation of your walls hugging his erection.
“So good,” you whine, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “Feels so good.”
And he begins to move in and out of you at a slow pace, trying his best to stave off the orgasm he’s already close to reaching as he fucks you, filling your cunt entirely with his long cock and bottoming out every time he thrusts himself back in.
And he tries to kiss you, but he can’t, his mouth simply looming over yours in its parted position as he echoes his moans into you and lets his saliva-coated lips graze over you. He looks like the subject of an erotic painting himself, eyebrows arched up so artistically with every thrust, melting into your touch as you run your hands through his hair. His initial dominance over you is quickly shifted to that of submission to your mind and your body, little whines leaving his lips as he lets you consume him whole and mold him between in your touch, like he’s made of clay and you’re the sculptor. His lanky body seems to extend as he sways his hips into yours, little dips from the pads of your fingers embedding into his pale skin. He folds effortlessly above you, the points of his elbows jutting out as he steadies his body over you, like he’s made of wire and positioned to balance over you so perfectly, not very sturdy, and yet bent and snapped just right so that he can remain glued to you. And if you were to climb out of your body and paint this exact moment, all you would see are an indistinguishable, amorphous set of limbs that seem to dissolve into each other like hues of paint on a palette. Two colors swirling around to make one, the two of you like primary colors that create endless possibilities when mixed together like this, offspring of a hundred different shades, painting the darkened studio around you with your yearning for one another.
And as Hyunjin brings a hand to stroke your cheek gently, a smile grows on his breathless lips as he realizes he’s brushed a thick stroke of wet paint along your skin. The indigo stripe contrasts coldly against your flesh, still glistening in its freshness like he’s just begun on a blank canvas.
“It’s paint,” Hyunjin says as you gasp at the cold sensation, smiling too, when he swipes it again with his thumb and flashes it down at you.
And you chuckle lightly below him, taking note of the bright orange streak that lines his neck, just below his adam’s apple. You’re not sure when it got there, or whether it was from you or him, but you run a finger through it too, bringing it to his cheek to rub your thumb lovingly across his face and paint it there, too. And in one swift motion, Hyunjin swipes the palm of his hand along the tarp, coating it in hues of indigo and deep violet and gray, cupping a hand around your breast to coat it in the same wet substance. And you do the same, your hand dipping generously into the myriad of reds and fuchsia paints that live below you, running a hand down his chest and painting a long stripe along his toned torso.
You both laugh, as he picks up his pace again, pushing himself to the hilt inside of you, the paints melting together with your sweat as he fucks you rhythmically again. And like two blank canvases finally being put to use, new colors blossom between the two of your longing bodies, shades of magenta and blue-gray making themselves known across your breasts and his torso. The colors are vibrant and robust, transferring life from the dull tarp of the studio floor onto blank slates of skin. You wish you could step out of your body and capture the colors forever, mix paints together into little jars and name every shade after every feeling Hyunjin’s ever given you. Longing, lust, fear, fascination, infatuation, obsession.
“I think I’m obsessed with you,” Hyunjin breathes into your mouth so desperately. “It’s indescribable, the things you do to me.”
He lets his hands intertwine with yours again, giving them a small squeeze as he fucks you a little faster now and lets his groans shift into small whimpers that escape his lips.
“Please let me cum inside you,” Hyunjin begs, his cock slipping against your cervix with ease as wettened noises of his arousal pooling against yours fill the room. “Please, please, I promise to take care of you, baby. I feel like I belong here.”
He’s a whimpering mess for you now, tears pricking the corners of his eyes as he fucks you and lets his hands explore every inch of your body. You want to cry, too, at the realization again that this all feels so tangible, that he makes you feel so seen when he’s hovering over you, placing open-mouthed kisses onto yours and letting his melodic moans fill your ears. The paint between you serving as proof that he’s touched you so desperately and wholly, creating art together in the confined space of your otherwise dull studio. And you want to feel him cum inside you, too, as a final reminder that you’re visible to him, that you’re no longer a fleeting, anonymous artist when you’re with Hyunjin. That he sees you for exactly you are, he knows your deepest secrets, and yet still he holds you, whispering words of permanence in your ear and letting you mold him like art. He’s an artist on his own, and he’s art at the hands of you, both of which draw you to him in ways you can’t begin to fathom, unlike anything you’ve felt before. And he teaches you that you’re an artist on your own, and art at the hands of a lover, both of which you hadn’t considered before Hyunjin, deeming yourself invisible in your comfortable solitude to the vast world around you. But the two coincide to echo the same sentiment that he teaches you exactly the way he also learns from you.
“Cum inside me,” you breathe desperately, grasping his hands a little tighter as he fucks you at a faster pace now.
“Yeah?” Hyunjin confirms, still staving off his orgasm until your verbal consent is heard.
“Yes,” you respond, wrapping your legs around his waist and making your best attempt to kiss him through his release. And you do, your lips moving against his in labored breaths, as he finally twitches inside of you and paints the inside of your listless body, hues of glazed white arousal filling your aching cunt as he whimpers through his orgasm.
“Fuck,” Hyunjin, breathes, giving a few more thrusts as he slows, his arousal dripping onto the tarp below you as he pulls out. And he rolls over to lie beside you, a mess of paint streaks sprawled out along his skin as his chest rises and falls with slowing breaths. The two of you say nothing for a moment, your eyes glued to a blank canvas housed on an easel in front of you.
It’s an almost blinding shade of white, begging for an ounce of color like the shades that now live on your skin. And through your heavy breaths, you picture the endless possibilities that can fill in the empty spaces above you. Grasslands, trees, oceans, clear waters and a vast, endless blue sky…
*
There is no overseas schedule Hyunjin has to tend to. You’re already aware of this, Hyunjin explaining to you that he made it up to put the sessions on hold and to keep Q from pressing him with questions.
But he resumes the sessions after a few weeks of putting them on pause, because he can’t seem to stay away from you any longer.
Hyunjin reckons he has a couple dozen of your paintings in his room now, all similar portraits of his face, portraits you capture in your signature formal essence, his face staring straight ahead or off in the distance, complete with the fine details of his long dark hair and the mole under his eye.
Only now that Hyunjin is back, Q is present at nearly every appointment. You’re not sure why things changed, and Q maintains a new stance to Hyunjin that the guidelines are based on adjusted company policies. But Hyunjin will do just about anything to be close to you- even if it means putting up with your obnoxious boss breathing down your neck every minute while you paint him.
The sessions are somehow even more unnerving than they used to be, Hyunjin still making every valiant effort to convey his obsession with you through intense stares and little gestures only the two of you can read. Q is obstinate in his ways, his gaze constantly flickering between you and your paintings to ensure everything is going swimmingly. But Hyunjin wishes so badly he could spend the entirety of these sessions alone with you, getting to break down your walls and see you for the person he knows you are when you’re not doing portraits under Q’s all-seeing eye.
With every passing day, and every passing session, Hyunjin grows a deep hatred for Q, despising the way he watches you work and chimes in to converse with the two of you. And he knows he shouldn’t, aware that Q is just your boss and nothing more. Something you’ve reiterated to him time and time again, but he can’t help it, desperate to have you all to himself every second of the day, a deep-seated longing to protect you from the hurt you’ve been dealt and wanting so badly for you to break free from the monotonous cycle you’ve confined yourself to of painting for anyone except yourself.
You can tell Hyunjin hates Q, judging by the way he doesn’t so much look in his direction when he arrives for his sessions. But you can’t convey the slightest bit of reaction in front of either of them, too scared of the prospect of what would happen to your career if anyone were to find out you’re fucking a client.
You maintain a professional composure around Hyunjin, despite the knowing stares he gives you and the sketches you catch him slipping into your purse when Q isn’t looking. At times he’s not around, you complete your daily tasks, well-mannered and organized to the clients who hire you, shooting them kind smiles and complimenting their black business attire when they show up for the evening. When the days draw to a close, Q is punctual as always, leaving just minutes past your last appointment and taking his work home with him.
And when his sleek black car turns out of the corner of the parking lot, Hyunjin slips inside like a mere shadow on the wall, quick to seduce you all over again and gift you with all of his recent sketches. Some of them are portraits of you, smiling or focused on your work. Some of them are erotic nude shots of you, lying on the tarp of the studio or touching yourself the way he pictures you do when you’re all alone. And some of them include both of you, your bodies tangled desperately into each other and drowning in your yearning and love. Sometimes nude, his hands on yours and fucking you mercilessly. Sometimes fully clothed, his lips on yours and bundled up in winter clothes. But always together, always desperate in your touches and always so tangible. You reckon he’s persuaded you into being fucked you on every surface of the dingy studio by now- against the canvases, on the tarp- several times, on the table Q typically occupies and just about every stool available to the two of you. And while Q is oblivious about why you stay a little longer every night, Hyunjin is both calculated and persuasive in returning so you two can get some time alone, time that always ends with his seed dripping out of your still-aching cunt, bodies entangled somewhere within the studio and covered in fresh swatches of paint.
He may have somewhat of an obsession with you, but life is teeming around the studio when Hyunjin is near, the colors and shapes of your work much more robust and vibrant when he’s striding around the space commenting on all his favorite pieces of yours. And you relish in stories of his days, typically spent at fan events or at dance practices. Having him return feels like having your physical figure return home to you, the world in complete equilibrium when he’s near, much less lonely than the one you’re used to.
“I could watch you do this forever,” Hyunjin remarks, watching you glide a brush along your canvas, filling in the shadows of a figure on the canvas in front of you.
And this one’s not a portrait- it’s a watercolor figure, much like the ones you used to paint back then, the technique coming back to you with ease as you highlight the convexes of a body mirroring yours and add varying hues as highlights.
Per Hyunjin’s request, you paint the figures occasionally, only because he’s repeatedly expressed his fascination at watching you complete the process in a live session. The paintings reminiscent of your old work aren’t for sale, nor are they critiqued by anyone except for yourself. And they’re certainly not done with the knowledge of Q, who would turn irate at you utilizing the studio’s supplies for anything but portraits.
They’re just for his viewing pleasure, a little exchange you indulge him in as he continues to gift you with sketches of his own.
Hyunjin’s arms snake around your waist as you paint, his head resting on your shoulder as he watches you dip your brush into a mug of water and dilute the caramel shade that taints the bristles.
“Will you add a second one?” Hyunjin asks in a curious whisper, his lips grazing your ear as you paint.
“A second one?” You echo.
“Yeah,” Hyunjin says, working a trail of kisses down the shell of your ear. “This one’s you. Will you add me?”
You chuckle lightly, dipping your brush into a warmer shade of brown and swirling it around to gather the color on the fine hairs.
“So they can resemble us,” Hyunjin says, his kisses traveling even lower. “Paint me fucking you the way you like it.”
You chuckle softly again, not missing the way Hyunjin’s hands travel to your skirt, flipping it up to graze his hands along the mound of your upper thigh.
“Hyunjin, I-” you begin to say. But you can’t answer him, shutting your eyes in pleasure as you hear him unzip his jeans behind you and position himself.
“Keep painting,” he says in a sultry whisper, pumping himself lightly behind you as he pulls your panties down.
And you try, bringing your brush to the canvas to add a second figure like he’s requested. But you can hardly make it past the first few strokes before Hyunjin’s sliding into your dripping cunt, letting his hands grip your waist to steady himself as he begins to move.
“Go on,” Hyunjin encourages, as his hips thrust in and away from your trembling figure, your hands trying their very best to keep hold of the little wooden paint brush and fill in his form.
You manage to add a subtle few streaks, beginning the amorphous outline of Hyunjin’s hair, his tall lanky figure towering over yours and taking you with such desperation.
But you don’t get very far before Hyunjin is angling your face to kiss your drooly lips, his hands now finding purchase on your breasts as he continues to fuck you. And all of this is wrong, you know very well. You’re not supposed to be sleeping with a client like this, much less one this powerful, this rich and who wields so much he can hold against you. One slip up and Hyunjin can go tell the world about how you’re the artist who disappeared to sell yourself out to rich men for all their selfish needs. And any option you have to defend yourself would never hold up against his wealthy corporation and all its investors.
But you also can’t help but give into his urges when he’s around, his lips so tantalizing on yours and his cock filling you so fully and completely when he has his way with you.
Maybe it’s not even just about the sex for you- maybe it also has something to do with his stories you live through vicariously, listening to tales of the outside world while you’re trapped in this studio or at the businesses of wealthy men. It’s also the drawings he makes for you, ones you find yourself staring at for hours after he leaves, like proof that he was here and he touched you. The drawings are you in your most tangible form, his hands on yours and his lips on the curves of your neck. It’s like a glimpse into a version of yourself that ceases to exist when he’s absent. And it’s the late hours of the night he spends asking so politely to watch you paint your older work, always so fascinated with the way your mind conjures up varying lonely figures crafted from watercolors and a nylon bristle brush. Older work you hadn’t realized you missed so dearly until you began producing it for Hyunjin again.
But you know that to Hyunjin this is just a exhilarating idea for him, to view your art the same way he carves out a couple hours each week for a museum tour or to sketch in one of his books. He probably finds it more convenient to fuck you here where nobody’s around than to stroke himself in a dorm he shares with three other men. And you can feel it in the way he so desperately pleads you to paint for him or cum for him- that his obsession with you is less about you, and more about the thought of you.
Maybe this is just the result of Hyunjin uncovering a secret nobody else paid close enough attention to connect you to. Or the thrill of you being his favorite artist for years, and realizing you’re finally tangible in front of him, real, and not disappeared like he previously took you for. You reckon it must be the same phenomenon other girls feel toward him, getting intimate with somebody they idolize, desperately cupping his face like it might dissipate if they don’t grasp hard enough. But just the thought of somebody doesn’t imply love. It doesn’t imply a mutual understanding, and it certainly doesn’t imply permanence for either party involved. When he’s gone again, you’ll cease to be real like you already are when he’s not around. And then every vision you have will be rooted in unfaltering solitude once more, your anonymous life resuming again.
“Will you cum for me?” Hyunjin asks, and you snap back to the feeling of his cock twitching in your dripping cunt as he grips your waist. “God, you don’t understand what you do to me.”
You can’t give him an answer before you feel him reaching his release inside of you, shooting thick white ropes of his cum into you and slowing his pace again as he moves your hair away from your face.
“Fuck, I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it,” Hyunjin says sheepishly as he pulls out. “Sit down for me,” he orders between kisses to your neck, trailing down to your shoulder, grazing his hands along your waist and groaning against you.
And he’s already guiding you back to one of the stools, kneeling between your legs and spreading you for him, your glistening cunt on full display for him to taste.
“Want you to cum for me,” Hyunjin whispers, before positioning one of your legs on the wooden dowels of the stool. You can’t verbalize anything to him before his tongue is darting into your entrance, lapping his own release out of you and trailing up to give attention to your swollen clit. He works you in such desperate motions, tongue working your core like a starved animal and eagerly trying to coax an orgasm out of your trembling body. When his arousal is effectively brought out of your tight cunt and painting the tip of his tongue white, he coats your clit in it, giving kitten licks to your bundle of nerves as he hums against your flesh and whispers little pleas for you to let go.
And between your pussy still clenching down around the sheer memory of his cock inside of you mere minutes ago, and his plump lips kissing all over your wettened core, you do let go for him, dribbling cum down the edge of the wooden stool and threading your fingers through his hair as he trails kisses down to your thighs in encouragement.
“So good,” Hyunjin murmurs as he comes up for air, intertwining his fingers in yours as you get cleaned up. You shoot him a little “thank you”, and Hyunjin presses a chaste kiss to the back of your hand as he nods, getting dressed once more and tucking his softened cock back into his boxers.
“Come here,” he states. “I want to ask you something.”
“Should I be concerned?”
“It’s exciting,” Hyunjin retorts.
He guides you to his same wooden stool, where he climbs upon the seat and then takes your hands in his again as you stand in front of him, pressing a small kiss to your palm before speaking.
“You know I care about you, right?” He begins, his eyebrows raised curiously.
“You’ve mentioned it,” you reply.
“And you know I love your art.”
“So you’ve told me,” you say, and Hyunjin brings your hand up to press another kiss to your palm.
“I have a proposal for you,” he then says. “And I just want you to hear me out.”
Your heart sinks at his words, already fearing the worst as you wait for him to elaborate. You pray he hasn’t done anything to reveal your identity, or to make these secret erotic sessions public, knowing you’d both never live a normal life again at either of the instances occurring.
“What is it?” You ask Hyunjin, heart racing in your chest.
He rubs his thumb along the back of your hand soothingly, trying to calm you down before he speaks.
“I privately sponsor the art gallery every year,” he begins. “I put some funding toward a painting of my choice and it allows those artists to have their pieces displayed for the winter show and make connections,” he continues.
“Okay…”
“And I want to sponsor you this year,” Hyunjin finishes, giving your hands a little squeeze.
“Hyunjin, there can't be an installment of your face at the art museum. People will get suspicious.”
“Not my face,” he says reassuringly. “Your art. Like the ones you used to do.”
And you feel your throat dry up at his words, the exact thing you’d feared coming to fruition.
“I can’t,” you’re quick to say.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t do those paintings anymore. I can paint you, or another person or whoever. But I can’t do one of my old ones.”
“But your old ones are beautiful,” Hyunjin says. “It doesn’t have to be your old series. You can start a new one. Do something entirely different.”
“I don’t want to do something entirely different, Hyunjin. It’s a chapter of my life that’s been closed already. You know I don’t do those anymore.”
Hyunjin maintains his collected composure, his eyes softening as he speaks to you.
“You’re not happy doing portraits. I know you. You have a spark in you when you’re painting for yourself, and people love them. You deserve to be doing what you love.”
“I’m sorry,” you say, letting go of Hyunjin’s grasp and shaking your head. “I’m so grateful for the offer, but I can’t put myself back out there again.”
“You can still be anonymous,” Hyunjin offers. “Some artists I’ve sponsored choose to remain anonymous and only reveal to serious patrons of their art. I can make sure they don’t find out who you are.”
“It’s me and my art I don’t want to be seen,” you emphasize.
Hyunjin doesn’t say anything now, rising from the wooden stool and reaching for the iced coffee he’s placed on the table beside you.
“Okay. I won’t press it any further.”
He swirls the cup of ice around in his hand, and then he hangs his head in defeat.
“Hyunjin, seriously. Thank you for the offer. It’s sweet of you to consider it. But I’m not ready yet.”
He shoves a hand in his pocket and cocks his head slightly.
“Is this because of Quinton?”
“What? Hyunjin, I already told you our relationship is strictly professional-”
“Not romantically,” Hyunjin continues. “You’re like a slave to him. You do everything he tells you to do. He probably doesn’t let you leave this studio.
You’re quiet again, not answering him immediately. No, you don’t stay here at Q’s behest. But it just feels safer to follow his advice. He was just a client when you met him, but he took you under his wing to get you where you are now. He runs all your schedules, he books your appointments for you, he even gives his say on most of your work. He’s the only part of your old life that’s remained the same, despite your transition to portraits, and cutting him off would be stepping into a world completely unbeknownst to you.
“No,” you say finally, but you don’t expand further upon your stance.
“You’re so lonely here,” Hyunjin responds frustratedly. “And yet you follow orders from the same person whose job it is to keep you invisible.”
“Why should I follow your orders?” You retort.
“Because I love you.”
“You don’t love me, Hyunjin,” you reply frustratedly, finally feeling the anger overtake you as you continue your angered speech. “You love the idea of me. You love the idea of escaping your crazy rich life to try and resolve the tortured artist you’re so infatuated with. You love the idea of fulfilling somebody’s life with your presence because it’s all you do for a career. I’m not the person I was when I was doing those paintings- I do portraits now, and I work under somebody who knows what’s best for me. And you’re just a client I’m sleeping with.”
Hyunjin purses his lips, amused you would stoop that low for the purposes of declining his offer. And then he shakes his head as he speaks again.
“You’re right,” he finally says. “I’m just some client you’re sleeping with. I never tried to push you out of this line of work you hate so much, or drew you on every page of my sketch book or made love to you in every square inch of this goddamn studio. I’m not proposing this because I care about you and I want you to do what you love, it’s because I’m just a client you’re sleeping with.”
And he pivots on his heel to exit the studio, taking rushed steps toward the door as tears brim the corners of your eyes.
“Hyunjin, wait,” you call desperately.
“I see you,” Hyunjin says suddenly, turning around to face you. “I see all of you. Your work didn’t just materialize by some anonymous form. You’re a painter, a really talented one, and I don’t want you to feel this all-consuming solitude anymore. I say that because I love you, not just because I’m sleeping with you. If you want to remain invisible to everybody except Quinton, then be my guest. Just know that I tried.”
And without another word, the studio is empty again, the tip of your brush still dripping with the remnants of the warm brown color and every intention to add a second figure to your painting.
*
You don’t speak with Hyunjin any more that evening. Or the next day. Or perhaps for a whole week following the conversation, for that matter. The reality is that you want to partake in his offer, the thought of it candidly piquing your interest to paint something other than another rich man. And it would be nice to watch your art be displayed for people to see just once, rather than to live on the walls of a company where only people within a certain tax bracket will ever grace your work. But what you reiterated to Hyunjin still stands- you’re scared to venture out into the competitive world of art galleries again. Your old series was a hit, sure, but it was also torn down relentlessly by those who didn’t understand it and those who simplified it down to its medium. And it was a much harder endeavor to make people understand your watercolor forms, unlike the portraits Q advises you continue producing.
But you can’t seem to stop thinking of Hyunjin’s proposal as a whole, understanding very well that his offer is one of the kindest things he could propose to you at this place in your life. He sees you- all of you, and subsequently he knows that you’re unhappy in this monotonous abyss of adding new features to the same faces every day. The way a change for you is determined only by a shift in a client’s pose or even just an addition of their pet- it’s all so repetitive, exactly what art isn’t supposed to be.
Maybe you’re just scared of getting rejected again, or perhaps it’s that you’re scared of finally being seen again, anonymous or not, putting yourself on the map again and being perceived.
*
“I want a painting,” Hyunjin says as he saunters into the studio one evening, throwing off his bag and dragging a stool to the middle of the room.
“Oh- Hyunjin, pleased to see you again,” Q remarks, bowing and giving you a nervous look.
Hyunjin doesn’t even acknowledge him, keeping a stern gaze locked on yours as if he’s challenging you.
“We have the evening booked today,” Q begins. “But I’m sure we can accommodate something for next week-”
“I need it now,” Hyunjin replies. “I’m willing to pay five times your asking price.”
And you narrow your eyes at Hyunjin, knowing he’s making his best attempt to provoke you and disrupt the work you’re completing per Q’s orders.
“How do you want it?” Q then asks, not hesitating to put aside your entire evening for Hyunjin’s offer.
“I want to be in a suit. And I want to be holding a wad of cash. I want to look like an investor.”
“Interesting,” Q says, his gaze flickering to yours. “She can do it though.”
Q turns to face you, giving you a knowing look as he raises his eyebrows. “I’ll clear your calendar for today and we can stay and work on this piece.”
And Hyunjin looks to you, too, waiting for you to protest, to say something along the lines of a refusal to partake in the outlandish task. But you avert both of their gazes, readying your paint palette and gesturing to one of the stools in front of you.
“Have a seat,” you say plainly, void of any emotion or desire to fulfill the task. And by the way Q hovers over you, void of autonomy, too, Hyunjin concludes.
“How are things at the company?” Q asks Hyunjin, leaning in a little too close to you as you begin painting long strokes on the canvas.
“Fine,” Hyunjin says, not taking his gaze off yours. His eyes are narrowed like he’s challenging you, yet you don’t give him the reaction he searches for.
“You must be busy,” Q remarks, his hands folded behind his back. “It’s been a while since we’ve seen you here.”
“Yeah, and I’m sure you’re running her schedule like the fucking military,” Hyunjin retorts, cocking an eyebrow at him. Q takes a sharp breath, but he doesn’t argue, doing his best to keep in line at your highest-paying client.
“She’s pretty busy,” Q replies reluctantly. “But it’s nothing she can’t handle.”
Hyunjin doesn’t say anything, again waiting for you to chime in, but you still don’t, working on adding details to Hyunjin’s tresses on the canvas.
“This will be my final session,” Hyunjin then says, and your head snaps to meet his gaze.
“Is that so?” Q questions. “Going overseas again?”
“Indefinitely,” Hyunjin replies. “Not overseas, I’ve just no need for the paintings anymore.”
Your lips part as though to ask if he’s serious, but you can’t, not with Q here alongside you.
“I have so many of them now,” Hyunjin remarks, not taking his eyes off you. “It’s been a lovely time with the two of you, but I won’t be returning after this evening. I hope you understand.”
“Please don’t hesitate to reach out if there’s anything we can provide you with,” Q voices. “I hope we’ll remain connected with the peers at your company.”
“Oh, you will,” Hyunjin replies. “I’m sure the investors and the senior managers will love portraits of their own. She’ll have a lifetime of portraits to complete when I’m gone.”
You can feel a pit forming in your stomach, queasy at the thought of carrying on this task of capturing rich businessmen and ceasing your sessions with Hyunjin. He’s unmoving in his attempts to make you revisit your old art. But his begging has also been eye-opening, making you realize just how much you hate this line of work and having Q breathe down your neck.
Hyunjin has a point, you’re unhappy doing portraits. You love the watercolor figures you paint, you love your time with Hyunjin and the feeling of unending curiosity he instills in you. There’s no solitude when he’s around, filling every aspect of your life with such color and vibrancy like the figures you paint. And you learn from him just as much as he learns from you.
But the fear remains, the feeling of hopelessness remains, the perception that Hyunjin is only obsessed with an idea of you and that your career is far gone from the watercolor figures you painted so long ago.
And of course, that you require Q’s uncompromising presence in your life to be even close to successful. He’s the one who transitioned you to a successful career of portraits after your previous line of work fell through. And you’re not sure you can shift to a new focus without him to guide you.
“Hyunjin,” you say suddenly, garnering the attention of both he and Q.
“What is it?” Q replies, as though you’re referring to him. And you wish he wouldn’t be so… disruptive, making you lose your train of thought as Hyunjin waits for your words with bated breath.
“I’ve completed the initial outline,” you settle on saying. “It should be sent over to you in a couple days.”
And he nods, a somber, thin-lipped expression on his face as he understands you’re never going to divert from this path of fear you walk, one you’re forcing yourself to stick to.
“Thank you,” Hyunjin responds, getting up to leave again. “I’ll see you around.”
*
Private events are seldom actually private for Hyunjin. The interior of the gallery is organized accordingly so that patrons can mingle with their respective artists and all of the prestigious guests invited.
But the exterior is only private up the crowd control stanchions, where beyond it live hordes of people wielding all sorts of fancy cameras and cell phones, snapping photo after photo and analyzing every one of Hyunjin’s movements.
Hyunjin’s attending an art gallery today, the crowds murmur amongst each other, the message echoing all over the city and overshadowing the art itself, which hasn’t even been unveiled yet.
His departure from the black limousine he arrives in is met instantly with deafening screams, the repetitive click of camera shutters and commands for him to angle his face every which way. The people stop to stare at his fitted black suit, the long black hair he sports styled slick out of his face and expensive jewelry he flaunts as a clear indicator that he’s a sponsor of the evening’s show, alongside a long list of other wealthy individuals.
His hands remain tucked in the pockets of his black slacks, giving a gracious bow to the fans before making his way inside to the main event.
And the gallery is significantly more packed than he’s used to, people crowding every square inch of the marbled floors and admiring the intricate pieces of art. The curtains are pulled back neatly so that guests can roam freely among the halls, easels set up in neat rows and canvases mounted on walls to display all the sponsored works of art.
Hyunjin is quick to gravitate to the long white table pushed against the wall by the entrance, set up with generous servings of hors d’oeuvres. And in a bout of nervousness, he’s sampling the cheese platters and the varying flavors of wine, sighing as he swirls a glass of cherry merlot between his slender fingers.
He was supposed to be here sponsoring you tonight, unveiling your paintings for the world to appreciate once again, and so that he’d finally put forth the notion that you’re more than the halls of law offices your portraits exist in.
But that was three weeks ago now- three weeks in which Hyunjin failed to visit you like he’d warned he would. And three weeks in which neither of you reconnected, letting the temporary affair between you dissipate like the sketches he stopped producing of you, like the portraits he finished collecting from you. And like the hope he held onto that maybe you’d come around and entertain a life in which you aren’t so comfortable being invisible and inhibited at the hands of your Q. But that never came around, and although Hyunjin is frustrated with you, he misses you just as much, knowing very well he could spend a lifetime learning from you if only you let him. Now in the gallery he once dragged you to, where he admitted to having learned the secret you hid, he can only pray you know that he sees you for who you are, and not some invisible producer of your static portraits. That a life lived in complete solitude doesn’t have to be the answer to succumbing to your fears, even if it feels more comfortable than the perception and the critiques of others. And that although the idea of you was a lovely one indeed, he loves every part of you, not just the concept of you- and pushing you to grow was his way of making it known.
The gallery hosts are quick to introduce the paintings and their respective sponsors, a variety of them being under anonymous titles and names as they choose to remain hidden, too. But Hyunjin doesn’t wait around to listen to much of it, examining the paintings on his own in between nervous trips to the snack table, where he gets tipsy off a little too much cherry wine. It’s his first time not being a sponsor to a specific painting, instead having opted to donate a large sum to the gallery in his company’s name. But after you declined his invitation to be sponsored, Hyunjin didn’t see it fit to highlight the work of any other painting. It’s you he wants to see up there, proudly showing off your work and making a name for yourself in the industry again the way he knows you secretly want to. And he so badly wishes he could stop by your studio one last time to tell you that he’s not sure he can ever sponsor another painting again if it’s not one of yours. Your art circles his mind relentlessly, as do your words, your heart, your body and your real, tangible presence.
“Nice, isn’t it?” A voice says from beside Hyunjin. He almost jumps, the wine making him a little tired at this point in the evening, not having socialized with many people while he stands in the corner of the room and takes in the sight.
“Quinton?” Hyunjin voices plainly, scowling at his uptight demeanor as he leans against the table beside Hyunjin and crosses his legs.
“So nice to see our former highest-painting client,” Q responds. “And to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I’ve never seen you at one of these,” Hyunjin chimes in. He then looks around the room frantically, thinking maybe you’d accompanied him to the event tonight.
“Don’t bother,” Q says, as he takes a sip of wine. “I’m alone. Just scoping out the competition.”
He’s quiet for a moment, swirling his glass of wine around in his hand before speaking again.
“She never had a portrait at one of these gallery shows. Said they felt too commercial. Of course her old stuff was shown just about everywhere. I think she was just scared.”
“You mean- you knew?” Hyunjin questions.
“Of course I knew. I led her career’s entire rebranding. Of course she didn’t love the portraits, but the money came to us like you wouldn’t believe. And coupled with her fear of these gallery walks and important figures, we had no choice but to compromise. I got her the opportunity to paint people like you. And she did all the work.”
Hyunjin doesn’t say anything for a moment, simply shaking his head and crossing his legs, too.
“She had a lot of people who believed in her art.”
Q shrugs. “She was free to walk whenever she wanted. Her fear kept her controlled, not me. I’m just another businessman for all she cares.”
And Hyunjin gives a small nod, finishing the last of his wine.
“Look, I can’t help but feel like I owe you an apology,” Hyunjin says finally. “I was just a little jealous whenever you were around. Not that there was anything going on, I just mean-”
“You think you’re the first client to have taken a liking to her?” Q interrupts. “I’ve seen it a million times. People want to take advantage and they get obsessed, and they start pulling crazy shit like offering five times the pay for a simple portrait.”
Q looks down to examine his leather shoes, adjusting the glasses that rest on the bridge of his nose. And then he sighs frustratedly before speaking again.
“I would know,” Q then says, doing his best to avert Hyunjin’s gaze. “She’s a tough one to crack. She loves her paintings, and being alone and I don’t think she’d ever give the time of day to a good man. Not even if he followed her to her next endeavor.”
Hyunjin nods at the marbled floor, and then his head snaps in the direction of Q’s somber gaze.
The way he speaks of you, the way he gets a little too close to you for Hyunjin’s liking- Hyunjin finally thinks he understands. It’s not just the fear of being perceived that keeps you from picking up your old life again. It’s the fear of abandoning Q, who so arrogantly feels like he’s owed something for helping get you back on your feet after you shifted your work’s focus.
He’s the only other person who knows your secret, and he holds it over you like it makes him more important than anyone else in your life. He reduces you to a lifetime of following his orders, likely because he’s bitter that he was never the solution to your loneliness. A wealthy businessman himself, it was Q who kept returning for paintings once not long ago, accumulating piles of your work and making every last effort to pursue you. But when he wasn’t successful, he convinced you that you were right about your fears, that it was your best move to take his advice and he’d keep you turning a generous profit as long as you stuck by him. Q was so hopelessly devoted to an idea of you, and when he couldn’t help you overcome your fears, he became the catalyst for your fears, instead.
“You and I are a lot of the same,” Q voices. “Two rich men with dreams just out of our reach. It seems money can’t buy you everything, after all.”
Hyunjin doesn’t say anything, swallowing nervously and looking at Q. And then Q shakes his head as he sets his glass of wine down on the table.
“Only I’ve never seen her willingly paint the same client so many times the way she does with you,” he finishes. “I guess she really liked being seen, after all.”
Q adjusts his glasses once more, and Hyunjin feels his heart sink at Q’s words, suddenly feeling overwhelmingly guilty for not having contacted you again.
“Could you tell her I stopped by?” Hyunjin inquires.
“Me? Oh no,” Q begins. “I can’t get in contact with her. No one can.”
“You- what? What do you mean?”
“Exactly that,” Q responds. “She told me she was done, and she walked out on me with a single watercolor palette and a notepad. She didn’t say anything else.”
“Did she say where she was going?” Hyunjin interrupts to ask, and Q shakes his head.
“She just left, and it’s been almost a month and she’s still MIA. Maybe she’ll come crawling back when she needs another rebranding.”
Hyunjin can feel his heart sinking deeper and deeper with every passing word that leaves Q’s lips.
He’s tried your cell phone- twice since leaving, and you never answered. But he assumed it to be a fleeting argument that would eventually make amends in due time when he could stomach visiting the studio again- not you running away from all of this for good.
“I have to go,” Hyunjin says frantically, chugging the rest of his wine and slamming his glass on the table.
“It was me who found her the first time,” Q says, not taking his eyes off the art across the room.
“What?”
“It was me who chased after her. After she disappeared. Don’t be surprised if she shuts you out when you finally do find her- I think I’ve already scarred her enough with my relentless attempts at persuasion.”
Hyunjin nods nervously, watching as Q cocks his head at the art, still averting Hyunjin’s gaze. And when he finally does turn to look at him, his eyes are glossy with tears, guilt painting every feature on his face.
“Could you just tell her I’m sorry?”
Hyunjin nods, though he makes no verbal promise to relay the message to you.
“Don’t do what I did,” Q emphasizes. “I think you’re the one person who makes her feel like art, herself. Don’t ruin this.”
*
“I forgot my ID today,” Hyunjin remarks to the security guard in the late hours of the evening. He’s met with a gracious bow, the same security guard opening the door and ushering him inside anyway.
“Don’t worry about it. Take as long as you need.”
The security guards all know Hyunjin very well now, taking note of the way his visits increased tenfold following your departure from the city.
At first he felt as though maybe he was searching for you when he’d come out here, any ounce of proof that you had indeed existed the way he remembered, and hopeful for the confirmation that you moved on to something new.
But as paintings cycled through their respective artists, and exhibits cycled through varying themes, it was a confirmation he never received, never finding a hint of you among the gallery. Thus, Hyunjin drew the hopeful conclusion that you’d escaped to a nicer city, worked on your old paintings again and made a new life for yourself, independently instead of under the overbearing presence of any other man. It’s what he wishes, at least, feeling disheartened every time he remembers you’ve very seldom lived any part of your professional career for yourself only.
The gallery is quiet at this hour, akin to the silent gray evening beyond its walls, and Hyunjin’s shoes squeak along the floors as he makes his way over to the curtains that veil the artwork.
New sculptures, by the same artist who had formed the paper mache ones. These ones are formed from wire and clay, the figures once again embracing each other in tender touches and dances. Hyunjin studies every careful bend and arch, making a mental note to sketch some of them when he gets a chance.
Another room houses a similar spread of modern art from before, these ones all coinciding with the warm lighting that hangs overhead, strokes along the canvases all housing similar warm-toned hues. He knows you’d love this installment and its careful attention to making use of color.
And the last room, the same little room behind a curtain, a small bench in front of a colossal canvas and just barely lit for his eyes to make out the scene.
Hyunjin’s seated before he can even examine the artwork, squinting carefully at the painting to get a better look. He even makes a conscious decision to put on his black frame glasses, making every attempt to get a proper look at the artwork in front of him.
Diluted hues of paint and water dance along the canvas, figured outlines he’s very familiar with, and the essence of solitude radiating from every brush stroke. Only this one isn’t one figure- it’s two, a warm-toned figure and a cool-toned outline holding each other in a tender embrace, their faces indistinguishable, true to the mystery of your work.
And between them, bright hues of paint, yellows, blues, magentas, fantastic mixtures of chartreuse and vermillion, all painted like brush strokes along their yearning bodies and illustrating a profound sense of togetherness, much more robust than the ever-present solitude.
“Visions of you in solitude,” reads the small bronze beneath the canvas.
As he cocks his head to make sense of the painting, he feels the leather of the bench dip beside him, indicating the presence of another patron. And at this hour, he doesn’t need to turn his head to understand who it is.
“There’s two,” Hyunjin says with a small smile, not averting his gaze from the painting.
“It felt incomplete without one.”
“Is that…”
“You?” You question quietly.
He nods in response, eyes scanning the swatches of paint between their bodies. It has to be me, he thinks. It has to be us.
“Maybe it is,” you reply. “I don’t disclose my processes to just about anyone. But you’re welcome to make your assumptions how you see fit.”
Hyunjin gives a breathy chuckle, finally turning to meet your gaze.
You look lighter- happier, as though you have the weight of your fears and reservations off your shoulders for once. Hyunjin can’t help but lean a little closer into you before stopping himself, knowing he can’t come in here to mirror the same thing Q once did long ago.
“You’re doing galleries,” he settles on saying.
“And they scare the hell out of me,” you respond, huffing a little at the end of your sentence. “But, it is nice to be seen again.”
He gives a little nod, and then his mind goes back to Q, who had asked to relay his version of an apology to you. But Hyunjin hesitates to speak of him, not wanting to taint your new art with the mentions of the old businessmen who took advantage of you.
“I’d have kept my distance if I knew how this went down the first time,” Hyunjin explains, hoping you’ll get what he implies. “It wasn’t fair of me to ask you to shift your focus. I just wanted you to be happy.”
You sigh for a moment, scanning the painting across from you, too, before turning to speak to him once more.
“Of all the clients I’ve painted, you were the first to ask about my vision. I think you do see me. And I think it was easier to say you loved an idea of me, because I couldn’t understand why you’d love any other part.”
Hyunjin nods, not taking his eyes off of yours.
“I learn from you the same way you learned from me,” you continue. “And you make me feel so seen. But I’m learning how to do that without needing you, too. Getting comfortable with my loneliness, I don’t think it’s something I was able to practice very much. At least not with…”
Hyunjin nods, not needing to hear Q’s name to know who you speak of.
“I understand,” Hyunjin voices. “And I want you to take all the time that you need. What matters is that you feel fulfilled, and that you’re not being pushed at the hands of somebody else. That’s more than enough for me to love you at a distance.”
And you nod at him, your heart swelling at his words as he turns to look back at the painting once more. The two of you stay there like that for several minutes, observing the way you’ve so carefully captured the togetherness you feel when you’re beside him. Swatches of paints that echo the color he brings into your life, and yet rooted in the solitude you’re still learning to be comfortable with. Visions of him in your own solitude, also creating a version of yourself that will continue to learn from him as much as he learns from you. And still art at the hands of him, both when you’re loving him wholly, and at this comfortable distance from each other.
And by the summer months, he’ll love you at a close proximity when you’re ready again, exchanging passionate embraces behind the curtains at galleries and making love to you in your shared apartment. He’ll continue to draw for you, and remain the biggest fan of the two-piece figures you illustrate with watercolors, capturing the same sense of togetherness and yet unwavering solitude that comes with breaking yourself down to the world around you. And the love will be reciprocated unconditionally by you, who finally feels seen at the hands of somebody who perceives you beyond just a concept.
But for now, he’ll remain right here, at this comfortable distance, allowing himself to learn from you as much as you learn from him. And the love will be undemanding, but it will be real, tangible.
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Thank you so much my lovely Merin! This piece hit kinda close to home but I really enjoyed writing it 🙂↕️
──── * ˚ ✦ THE LAST STRAW ( stray kids )
❛ After a final argument with your toxic, manipulative mother over your irresponsible younger brother, you decide to cut ties with your family, only to be overwhelmed by doubt and panic until your supportive boyfriend, Felix, reassures you that choosing yourself was the right decision.
𝐥𝐞𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐱 + gender neutral reader ೯ ( 𝐨𝐧𝐞-𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭 )
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.5k 𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞: 14 mins
꒰ 💌 ꒱ ミ Here's a wonderful request made by @lixies-favorite-cookie! I hope you guys enjoy, reblogs and feedback are much appreciated! Requests are currently open! ── ( 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 )
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Non-Idol AU, emotional abuse, family conflict, mommy issues, mental health struggles, parental neglect, parental favoritism, depression and self-worth issues, let me know if I missed anything!
( 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 ) ( 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 & 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ) ( 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ) ( 𝐭𝐢𝐩 𝐣𝐚𝐫 )
The kitchen feels like a war zone, the air thick with unsaid accusations and the sharp remnants of long-festered wounds. Your mother stands at the sink, her back rigid and unforgiving, hands submerged in soapy water as she scrubs a dish with a ferocity that speaks louder than words. Each stroke of her hand seems to scrape away at the silence, but instead of clarity, it only stirs the storm between you. You can almost see the tension rippling off her like waves of heat from a furnace, feeding the blaze that has been building in your chest, threatening to consume you.
“So, that’s it?” you ask, your voice taut, straining against the anger simmering just below the surface. “You’re really going to ignore everything I’ve said and expect me to drop everything—again—to drive him around?” There’s a tremor in your tone, a plea for acknowledgment masked by the bitterness of your words. But she doesn’t turn to face you. Instead, she sighs, a heavy, exaggerated breath that fills the room with disdain, as if you are the one being irrational, ungrateful.
“He doesn’t have anyone else,” she replies, her voice dripping with exasperation, as if you should already know this. “And it’s not like it’s a big deal—you’re already out and about. What’s a little detour to help your brother?”
Her words hit you like a slap across the face, stinging and familiar. “A little detour?” you echo, a disbelieving laugh slipping out, sharp and brittle. “Mom, I have a job. I have classes. I’m barely keeping up as it is. But sure, let’s add ‘chauffeur for the man-child’ to my list of responsibilities.”
At this, she finally turns, her face set in that hardened expression you know so well—eyes narrowed, lips pulled into a thin, unforgiving line. “Don’t talk about him like that,” she snaps, her voice a low warning. “He’s your brother. He’s just going through a rough time.”
A bitter, exhausted laugh escapes your lips, and you can feel the years of buried frustration rising up, threatening to overflow. "A rough time?" you repeat, your voice growing louder, each word carrying the weight of all the grievances you’ve kept bottled up for so long. “He’s been ‘going through a rough time’ for the last five years! And every single time he screws up, you’re right there, wiping his slate clean, making excuses for him. He never has to face the consequences of anything, and somehow, I’m always the one left to pick up the pieces!”
Your voice cracks, and the room seems to tremble with the force of your words. All the times you’ve been overlooked, all the sacrifices you’ve made without a second thought, all the nights spent wondering why you were never enough—everything comes crashing down in this moment. You stand there, breathless, waiting for something, anything, that resembles an acknowledgment of what you’ve endured.
But she doesn’t see it. She doesn’t hear it. She doesn’t even flinch. And that, more than anything, is what breaks you.
"That's not true," your mother snaps, her voice cutting through the air like the crack of a whip, cold and biting. "You don’t know what he’s going through. You’ve always been so hard on him, never understanding." Her words hang in the air, thick with accusation, and you feel a familiar frustration beginning to coil tightly in your chest.
You scoff, the sound escaping before you can stop it, disbelief etched across your face. "Understanding?" you fire back, voice laced with incredulity. "You mean like how you’re 'understanding' when he crashes his car because he was out partying, and you expect me to drop everything, put my entire life and future on hold, to make up for it? Or how you’re 'understanding' when he blows all his money on God knows what, and I’m the one who has to lend him my hard-earned cash so he can pay his rent? You’ve always been ‘understanding’ of him, but when have you ever been ‘understanding’ of me?"
For a moment, the room falls silent, heavy with the weight of everything that has been left unsaid for far too long. Your mother’s eyes flash dangerously, a mix of anger and frustration, a glare that once would have made you swallow your words, scramble to backtrack and apologize. But not today. Today, the exhaustion has settled too deeply in your bones, mingling with the anger that has simmered for years, bubbling to the surface.
"You think I don’t care about you?" she spits out, her voice rising, each word sharp and defensive. "I’ve done everything for you! You grew up with food on the table and a roof over your head. You have a job now, you’re in college, you have everything going for you. Do you think that just happened by itself?"
Her audacity stings, her self-righteousness fanning the flames inside you. Every vein feels like it’s on fire, adrenaline surging through your body. “No,” you say, voice trembling but strong, each word pushed out with a force that surprises even you. “Don’t you dare take credit for what little good I have in my life. Don’t you dare. Everything I have going for me is because I worked for it. I was the one who graduated as valedictorian in high school—not you, not him. I worked my ass off to get into college, scrapping for every scholarship I could find so I wouldn’t have to drown in debt later. I found my own place to live, found a job so I could pay my own bills, held myself together when everything around me was falling apart.”
Your words pour out like a flood, each one more bitter than the last. You can see her eyes narrowing, her lips tightening, but it only pushes you to keep going. “But you? Sure, you fed me, you put a roof over my head—like the law says you should. But you only ever noticed me when I was useful to him, when I made things easier for your golden child."
The silence that follows is deafening, filled with the echoes of things that have finally been said, the raw truth laid bare between you. The tension in the room is electric, the weight of years of imbalance, neglect, and misplaced loyalty pressing down on your shoulders. But for the first time, you feel something shift inside you—a spark of liberation, a sense that perhaps, just perhaps, you’ve finally stepped out of the shadow that has loomed over you for so long.
"You're being so selfish," she spits, her voice trembling with a barely controlled fury that makes the walls tremble. The dishes slip from her hands, clattering into the sink with a loud clank as she whirls around to face you. Her eyes are wild, nearly bulging out of her head, her face flushed with indignation. "You have no idea what it's like to be a parent, to have to make these kinds of decisions." The venom in her words seeps into the air, choking you with its bitterness.
But you don’t flinch. Your fists curl even tighter at your sides, nails digging into your palms as you stand your ground, locking eyes with her. "I'm selfish?" A bitter laugh escapes you, sharp and brittle, and you can feel the hot sting of unshed tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. "Do you even hear yourself? You've spent years bending over backwards to coddle him, to fix every single one of his messes. And every time, it's me who gets caught in the crossfire. It's always me who’s expected to be the 'responsible one.' And what do I get for it? Nothing. Not a thank you, not a 'good job,' not even a fraction of the support and understanding you so eagerly throw at him."
Your mother’s hand slams down on the counter with a thunderous bang, making you jump. Her face is a twisted mask of rage and frustration. "You've always had a chip on your shoulder about him," she sneers, her tone dripping with condescension, as if speaking to a petulant child. "Maybe if you weren't so jealous—"
"Don't even start." You cut her off, your voice cracking under the weight of everything you’ve kept bottled up for so long. "I'm not jealous, Mom. I'm tired. I'm tired of being the one who has to sacrifice everything while he coasts through life, knowing you’ll always be there to bail him out. I'm tired of you making me feel like I’m never enough, like I’m only here to clean up his messes and make things easier for him."
The air thickens, a suffocating silence falling between you. Your mother’s face hardens, her eyes narrowing into icy slits. "If you don't like it, then maybe you should just leave," she says, her words cutting through the tension like a knife. "You're an adult now, aren’t you? You can make your own choices."
Her words hang in the air, daring you to speak, to react. For a moment, you’re stunned, the breath catching in your throat. Then, softly, like a truth you've kept buried, you say, "Maybe I should." The words taste like freedom on your tongue, a release from years of guilt and fear. "Because I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep letting you use me to prop him up while you tear me down. I deserve better than this."
For a fleeting moment, something flickers in her eyes—something almost vulnerable, almost human. But it vanishes as quickly as it came, replaced by the same cold indifference that has always been there. "Fine. Do what you want," she says dismissively, her tone devoid of emotion. "But don’t come crying to me when you realize you can’t handle the world I’ve protected you from."
A humorless laugh bubbles up in your throat, but you swallow it down, taking a deep breath instead. You feel the weight of years of resentment, of pain and unspoken truths, settling into place. "I won't," you reply, voice steady as a stone. "Because I've been handling the world all my life. You never protected me from it—you only ever protected your golden child. And I’m done."
You turn away, leaving her standing there, leaving behind the suffocating grip of a mother who never truly saw you. You walk out of the kitchen, out of the house that never felt like a home, and with each step, the air feels a little lighter, the world outside a little more open. For the first time, you feel the distant, hopeful glimmer of something new—something that belongs to you, and you alone.
You sit in the driver’s seat, fingers clenched around the steering wheel with a grip so tight that your knuckles have turned ghostly white. Each breath you take is shallow and ragged, barely filling your lungs. Your heart hammers in your chest, erratic and wild, a drumbeat of panic. The weight of the argument you just had with your mother crashes over you like an unrelenting wave, cold and suffocating. It presses down on you with a force that makes you feel as if you’re drowning, gasping for air but finding none.
Your eyes remain fixed on the house in front of you—your childhood home, a place that should have held comfort and warmth but instead feels like a prison. Each window, each door, every familiar detail seems to glare back at you like a hundred judgmental eyes, watching, waiting. This is where you learned the rules of a game you never asked to play. A place where love was conditional, tethered to sacrifice and silence. And now, it’s a place you’ve walked away from—perhaps for good.
Your vision blurs with unshed tears, and you let out a shaky breath that comes out more like a sob than you intended. You blink rapidly, trying to clear the sting from your eyes, but it’s useless. You can’t stay here, not in front of this house where the walls seem to whisper accusations, where every step closer feels like sinking deeper into quicksand. You can’t risk your mother storming out with that familiar fire in her eyes, her voice like a vice, twisting your emotions to suit her will.
With trembling hands, you fumble for your phone, fingers unsteady as they swipe through your contacts. You need an anchor, something to steady you before you’re pulled under by the crushing weight of it all. You find his name—Felix. Your thumb hovers for a moment, then presses the call button. You raise the phone to your ear, the screen blurring with tears as you pull out of the driveway. You don’t have a destination in mind; you just need to be moving, to put distance between you and that house.
The line rings once, twice, and with each unanswered ring, the panic coils tighter in your chest, rising into your throat like bile. What if he doesn’t pick up? What if he’s busy? What if you’re left alone with the noise in your head? But then—
"Hey, sunshine," his voice breaks through, warm and steady, like the first rays of dawn piercing through the darkest night. His tone is so familiar, so safe. "You okay? I'm just—"
You don’t let him finish. Your voice cracks as you speak, holding back the sob that threatens to spill over. "Felix...I—I did it. I told her...I told her that I'm done. I can't...I can't believe that I actually did it." The words rush out of you in a breathless stream, a confession that feels both terrifying and freeing.
There’s a pause on the other end, a silence that feels heavy with the weight of his understanding. You can almost hear him processing your words, feel the concern threading through the line. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft, careful. "You talked to her?" he asks, his tone gentle yet laced with worry. "What happened?"
His question hangs in the air, pulling at your heartstrings, inviting you to pour out the torrent of emotions swirling inside you. And for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel like you can breathe, even if just a little, knowing that someone is there to catch you as you fall.
You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, a futile attempt to push back the tears that threaten to spill over. Your heart is pounding in your chest, a heavy, uneven rhythm that matches the chaos in your mind. When you open your eyes again, you force yourself to focus on the road, blinking rapidly to clear the blurriness from your vision. You suck in a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself, to find some semblance of calm amidst the storm raging inside you.
"It was about my man-child of a brother again," you start, your voice wavering as you speak. Each word feels like a shard of glass, cutting through the tightness in your throat. "She wanted me to...to fucking drop everything and take care of his mess again. He crashed the damn car, and she’s not even mad at him. She was actually more pissed at me for not wanting to drive him everywhere." The bitterness in your tone is unmistakable, tinged with a raw edge of frustration that’s been simmering for far too long. "And I just...I couldn’t take it anymore, Lix. I told her I’m done. I told her I wasn’t coming back."
Your breath hitches, and a sob finally breaks free, raw and unrestrained, as you come to a stop at a red light. The tears you've been holding back spill over, warm and unwelcome, streaking down your cheeks. "But what if I made a mistake? What if I’m wrong?" you choke out, the words heavy with doubt and fear. "I mean, they are my family at the end of the day, and I’m nothing without them. What if I...what if I shouldn’t have done this?"
On the other end of the line, you hear a soft rustling, a familiar sound that brings a small measure of comfort. You know he’s moving, pacing like he always does when he’s worried. Felix’s voice comes through, steady and gentle, like a lifeline. "Hey, hey, take a breath for me, hmm?" he murmurs, his tone soothing. "Just breathe. In and out, yeah? I’m right here."
You try to follow his instructions as you ease off the brake, the traffic lights changing to green. You take a deep breath in, filling your lungs, and then let it out, but the exhale is shaky, faltering, as if your body is resisting the calm he’s trying to instill. The tears keep flowing, unchecked, but his voice remains a steady anchor amidst the turbulent sea of your emotions.
"You did the right thing, love," he continues, his voice firm with conviction—a conviction you desperately need to hear right now. "You’ve been dealing with their bullshit for so long. Too long. You deserve to let it go. You deserve to be free of it all."
Without much thought, you turn the car to the right, feeling the pull of his reassurance guiding you, even if you’re not quite sure where you’re going. "But what if...what if Mom’s right?" you whisper, your voice trembling with uncertainty. "What if I am being selfish? I just...I grew up with this rule in my head that family always helps family, so what if I’m being a shitty person by refusing?"
For a moment, there’s a pause, a breath of silence that hangs in the air, heavy with all the questions and fears you can’t quite voice. Felix’s next words are gentle, but they cut through that fog with a clarity that brings you back from the edge. "You’re not selfish," he says quietly but firmly. "Sometimes, family isn't about blood; it’s about who stands by you, who sees you. And you’ve been standing on your own for a long time. It’s okay to want more than just survival."
Tears spill down your cheeks, hot and unrelenting, blurring your vision as they cascade over your skin. You press the heel of your hand against your eyes, trying to stem the flow, but it’s like trying to dam a river with a single stone—futile. The weight of everything, the argument, the years of silent endurance, crashes over you in waves, threatening to pull you under. With a shaky breath, you pull onto the side of the road, the tires crunching over gravel, and the car comes to a halt.
"I’m scared, Lix," you confess, your voice breaking, small and fragile as it escapes you. "I’m scared that I’ll regret this." The words hang in the air, and for a moment, it feels like the world is holding its breath with you. Your heart is a clenched fist in your chest, squeezing tighter with each passing second.
Then, his voice breaks through the silence—a warm, comforting presence that feels like a soft embrace, wrapping around you when you need it most. "You won’t," he says, his tone gentle yet firm, a soothing balm for your frayed nerves. "You know why, huh? Because you’re finally choosing yourself. And that’s not something to regret, not ever. Love, I’m not trying to say it’ll be easy from now on, but you deserve to be happy. You deserve to be loved for who you are, not for what you can do for someone else."
A shaky breath escapes your lips, and the tightness in your chest starts to loosen, if only a little. His words are like a lifeline, grounding you, pulling you back from the edge of your doubts. Deep down, beneath the fear and the uncertainty, you know he’s right. You’ve carried this weight for so long that it feels strange to think of setting it down. But his words are a steady anchor, keeping you from drifting away.
"Can I come over?" you ask, your voice almost a whisper, raw and vulnerable. "I don’t... I don’t want to be alone right now." The admission feels like exposing a wound, but with Felix, it’s okay. It’s always been okay.
There isn’t a moment of hesitation before he responds, his voice filled with that unwavering reassurance you’ve come to rely on. "Of course. I’m not home right now, but I was already on my way from class, so I’ll meet you there, okay? Just stay on the phone with me until I get there. We’ll figure everything out together."
You nod, even though he can’t see you, feeling a small, tired smile tug at the corners of your lips. There’s still a lingering ache in your heart, but it’s softer now, more manageable. "Thank you, babe," you whisper, the words heavy with gratitude and love.
"Always," he murmurs back, his voice a soft promise that settles deep within you. "Just keep breathing, sunshine. I’ve got you. I always will."
With his voice still in your ear, you restart the car, feeling his presence as a guiding light through the darkness that’s clouded your path for so long. The road stretches out before you, uncertain and unfamiliar, but with Felix by your side—even if only through the phone—it doesn’t seem quite so daunting.
For the first time in what feels like years, there’s a flicker of something warm blooming in your chest. Hope. Fragile, tentative, but undeniably there. And for now, that’s enough.
꒰ 🏷️ ꒱ ミ Permanent taglist: @agi-ppangx @sunnyrisee @jisunglyricist @nxtt2-u @nebugalaxy @bokk-minnie @tajannah-price1 (Click on the link to join! All you have to do is answer a few questions to help me stay organized!)
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wdym forgotten i literally could never forget you :((( you dont have to apologise though, its completely understandable that you needed time<3
ive been okay-ish ??? i think lol i had my ups and downs and now im just kinda meh but its alright hehe also uni has been quite fun actually for me and turns out im not that bad at my major as i thought🫡
also !! there's been a lot going on but the boys attended the met gala recently and im pretty sure theyre preparing for a comeback rn ^^
now !! tell me how have you been ???❤️
— 👒
you’re the absolute sweetest 🥹 i appreciate you so much thank you for all your support and understanding
i’m glad uní has been so good for you! you’re so smart my goodness, i love that <3
i did see the whole met gala thing! don’t they look dreamy? i also saw how disrespectful and racist the photographers were being and as a poc myself i was livid for them, especially when the boys understand english, especially chan and felix. but even with all of that, they all looked so handsome and pretty. and the comeback??? i barely survived the last one guys have mercy on me (please don’t).
i have been okay…i struggle a lot with school and im lowkey avoiding looking at my grades because i’m not sure what i’ll do after if they’re not good. my girlfriend and i are good, just separated (in distance? for the first time since january 5th last week so now i can’t sleep as well as i used to. and now im just home!
ꖛ ꙳꯬ 🍷 i found a love for me 𓂅 ໋⋅
‧₊° pairing: sunghoon x female reader
‧₊° warnings: suggestive comment if you squint
‧₊° rating: 13+
‧₊° summary: in which sunghoon plans a little birthday celebration for you, whom he adores with his entire being.
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The sound of your keys jingling reached Sunghoon’s ears, triggering a series of panicked motions as he finished the final details of your birthday gift before he was caught. He quickly slipped onto the balcony, ensuring that the curtains were closed so that nothing was spoiled as his ears perked up at the sound of your bag being dumped onto the kitchen counter with an exhausted sigh.
“Hoonie?” He could hear you walk around the apartment in search of him, but remained as still and silent as he could. It was only a matter of time before you would walk into your shared bedroom and find the red dress he’d bought for you, surrounded by matching red rose petals scattered all over the room along with some balloons. “Oh—!”
Bingo, he smirked. Sunghoon wished he would have seen your reaction, but this would have to do for now. His patience grew thin as he waited for you to change into the silk material, though he should’ve expected to hear the shower turn on as soon as you realized he had something planned for you on your special day. He huffed half-heartedly as he plopped down onto one of the balcony chairs.
The starry night was chilly, though the heater he’d plugged in certainly helped keep the aesthetics intact. It was a small balcony, though nearly covered in plants and flowers you enjoyed caring for during your free time. There were lit candles on every available surface along with tiny fairy lights lining the ceiling which provided a romantic atmosphere when combined with the gorgeous view of the tranquil city. Dinner was also served, cooked by yours truly with the help of Jay (who quite frankly did most, if not all of the work). Finally, he’d brought a small radio that was connected to his phone via Bluetooth for when you arrived. He even went as far as to buy himself a really nice suit along with a button-up shirt to match your dress. This was a night Sunghoon had been planning for a little over a week now, so to say he was excited to spend this night with you would be a grave understatement.
At the mark of the hour, his phone rang — loudly — as your name flashed across the screen. He let it ring so that you may find your way to him easily, which didn’t take you long as you pulled the curtains apart and gasped at the sight.
Sunghoon had remained seated, though he had fixed his posture a bit for you, and an adoring smile adorned his lips while his eyes twinkled. He seemed to take a moment to take in the beauty that was you in the dress he’d gifted you, proud that it fit just like he’d imagined it would. He stood, towering over you as he opened his arms to pull you into him.
“Happy birthday, my rose.”
“Oh, Hoonie,” you gushed. “You didn’t have to do all of this for me, thank you.”
He smiled pridefully. “I know I didn’t, but I think you deserve all of this and more— it’s your day, after all.”
Despite the heels, you stood on your tip-toes for a loving peck, hands on his chest to steady yourself along with his hands holding your elbows gently.
“It’s beautiful, all of it.”
“I’m glad you like it.” He smiled, then signaled for you to take the same seat he’d occupied a moment prior and you happily obliged. “I made us some dinner.”
“By yourself?” You teased, dramatically raising an eyebrow. Sunghoon repeated your question in a nasal voice, rolling his eyes with a chuckle as you giggled.
“If you must know, Jay came over earlier to help me.”
“Ah,” you nodded. “I’ll thank him later, then.”
Sunghoon laughed sarcastically as he walked inside to bring out the food he’d prepared with his friend, placing everything on a beautiful silver tray that would soon rest on the small table between the two chairs. A bottle of wine was tucked into a small bucket filled halfway with ice to keep it cold. He decided to bring out the food first, smiling at your wide eyes and open mouth at the sight and scent of it all. Before joining you, though, he rushed back inside for the wine and the two empty glasses.
“You’ve really gone above and beyond, baby, it’s all so beautiful!”
You watched as your boyfriend popped the bottle of wine open, serving a decent amount for the two of you and you couldn’t help but feel almost dizzy with the amount of butterflies storming in your stomach. He was far too good for you, though this wasn’t new information.
Music began playing softly in the background before Sunghoon joined you as you consumed his thoughtful meal contentedly, practically having you melting with each bite. Small talk ensued in between mouthfuls as he told you about his morning at work, and you also shared with him about how your coworkers had sung to you during your lunch break — something Sunghoon knew made you deeply uncomfortable, but you were touched they’d remembered at all.
“Save space for desert, by the way,” warned Sunghoon as he set down his own plate. There was a good amount of leftovers, which he’d intended so you could have lunch to bring to work tomorrow.
“Desert too? You know I wouldn’t be able to resist even if I explode!”
He laughed at that. “I’m well aware, but you don’t think the night will end with just that now, do you?”
“Oh—!”
Sunghoon collected the silver tray and rushed inside before you could respond to that, ears burning. Instead of dwelling on the plans that involved you and your shared bed which was covered in balloons and rose petals, he focused on retrieving your custom-ordered birthday cake. A red heart to match tonight’s theme, chocolate flavored since it was your favorite. On the top was written: I will always love you, in white, cursive font. It came out perfect, and once again Sunghoon found himself giddy to see your reaction. Before he brought it out to you, though, he added a gold candle on the left side of the cake and lit it up.
Your heart skipped a beat as Sunghoon returned to you, a beautiful cake in one hand while the other protected the small candle’s flame. His melodious voice caressed your ears as he sang the birthday song to you, and although you disliked it when it was in front of a group of people, having him do it with only the stars as your witness made you fall in love all over again. The song ended too soon as he placed the cake on the table where the silver tray once rested.
“Make a wish,” he encouraged with the softest smile you’ve ever witnessed on him.
A beat barely passed before you blew the golden candle out with a large grin.
“Did you wish for something? That was fast.”
“I did, don’t worry.”
He hummed happily. “What did you wish for?”
“Hoonie, you’re not supposed to say!” You pouted cutely before standing up before him, kicking your heels off and extending your hand over to him. He hesitated for only a brief second before he followed your actions in slight confusion. “I just wished to be able to dance with you, right now.”
“You’ve just ruined the wish, though.” A light slap on the arm caused a low laugh to burst, and you couldn’t help but follow along as you waited for him to get into position. His laugh died down as his gaze met yours, watching you as though you had been the one to put all the stars in the sky yourself and if you were given the chance to do it, you would, if only to have him look at you like that forever.
The hand that wasn’t holding yours snaked around your waist, pulling you close enough for you to lay your head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat combined with the soft music playing in the background. The two of you swayed to the beat of an English song you adored.
I found a love for me
Darling, just dive right in, and follow my lead
Well, I found a girl, beautiful and sweet
“I love you.” Sunghoon’s voice was almost inaudible, you nearly missed it. You turned your head so that your chin rested on his chest, looking up at him with eyes you hoped would convey the intensity of your feelings for him, and by the way he smiled at you, he seemed to know.
word count: 1.4k 🍷 posted: 12 • 17 • 2023
💬 a note from green;
four days until my birthday 🎂
⨳ ko-fi ⨳
( 🏷️ ) taglist: @grandpafelixx , @agi-ppangx
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────* ˚ ✦ CAUGHT IN THE ACT ( stray kids )
❛ The reactions of each member of Stray Kids' Maknae line when they're caught kissing you by another member.
𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐲 𝐤𝐢𝐝𝐬 + gender neutral reader ೯ ( 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 )
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7.6k 𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞: 32 mins
꒰ 💌 ꒱ ミ This was honestly so much fun to write! My personal favorite has got to be Felix's piece :) Reblogs and feedbacks are always appreciated! Requests are currently open! ── ( 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 )
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Getting caught kissing, established relationship for every member except for Felix, Reader is a brat in Seungmin's piece, Seungmin's part is also kinda suggestive but nothing too serious, let me know if I missed anything!
( 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 ) ( 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 & 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ) ( 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ) ( 𝐭𝐢𝐩 𝐣𝐚𝐫 )
HYUNG LINE | MAKNAE LINE
한지성 ── HAN JISUNG.
The elevator chimed softly, announcing its arrival at the well-worn floor of your boyfriend’s apartment building. The sound, almost like an old friend’s greeting, blended with the soft rustle of takeout bags in your hands. Each step you took down the hallway was instinctive, as if your feet had memorized the path from countless visits. You mused that, at this point, you might as well be contributing to the rent, considering how often you wandered through these doors.
As you reached Jisung’s door, a sense of familiarity washed over you. The door, just as he’d assured you, was slightly ajar—a silent invitation into the cozy haven within. You gently nudged it open and slipped inside, the comfort of the space wrapping around you like an old, cherished blanket.
With a practiced ease, you kicked off your shoes, the soft thud of their landing on the floor barely registering amidst the quiet. The scent of warm, delicious takeout, mingled with the faint aroma of Jisung’s cologne, filled the air as you made your way to the kitchen. You placed the bags atop the counter with a satisfied sigh, the familiar clink of containers and the gentle crinkle of paper marking the end of your journey and the beginning of another evening spent together.
“Honey, is that you?” Jisung’s voice, warm and familiar, drifted from the depths of his bedroom. The sound, gentle and inviting, coaxed a smile from your lips. You responded with a soft, affirming call, and set about unpacking the array of takeout food onto the kitchen counter, carefully sorting out the dinner you’d planned for Minho to enjoy later. The task, once mundane, felt infused with a sense of anticipation.
Yet, a curious feeling nudged at you. The curiosity won over practicality, and you decided to investigate the source of Jisung’s call. Leaving the neatly arranged containers behind, you approached his bedroom with soft footsteps, the hallway dimly illuminated by the subtle glow from the adjoining rooms. As you pushed open the door, a veil of darkness initially concealed the room’s contents.
You peered inside, eyes straining to adjust to the shadows. Slowly, shapes began to emerge from the obscurity. Jisung’s figure, snug and enveloped in the cocoon of his bed, came into view. His gaze, tender and filled with warmth, met yours through the gloom. The softness of his smile mirrored the affection in your own, as if sharing a silent, intimate conversation in the quiet of the room.
“Why aren’t you coming to eat?” you asked, your voice carrying a blend of playful curiosity and genuine concern, as you took in the serene sight of him waiting for you.
Jisung remained silent, his only response a slow, deliberate lift of his arm—a silent, yet eloquent invitation for you to join him. With a tender smile curling your lips, you moved toward him, feeling the comforting warmth of his presence. You sank into the plush embrace of his bed, a sigh escaping your lips as you settled beside him. He promptly draped the soft sheets over your body, their gentle weight providing a cocoon of warmth as he drew you closer, his arms encircling you with a sense of tender possessiveness.
In the dim, intimate glow of the room, you felt his breath, warm and soothing, as he nestled his face into the curve of your neck, a contented sigh escaping him. His closeness enveloped you in a cocoon of serene affection. You reached up, your fingers gently threading through his tousled hair, your touch both soothing and affectionate.
“Are you okay, my love?” you murmured, your voice a blend of concern and tenderness. Jisung’s response was a subtle nod, his eyes closing briefly as he savored the moment.
“I’m just very tired,” he mumbled, his voice muffled and soft. “Spent the entire day with Chan and Changbin, working on some songs, and then we had dance rehearsal.” His words were nearly lost in the gentle hum of exhaustion that colored his tone. “Honestly, I feel like I could sleep for a hundred years.”
You chuckled softly, the sound a gentle ripple of warmth against the quiet of the room. Leaning in, you pressed a tender kiss to his temple, the gesture imbued with both affection and understanding.
“Since we’re not eating just yet, how about I put away the food first before we settle in for a nap together?” you suggest softly, the words slipping gently into the quiet space between you. As you attempt to wriggle free from his tender embrace, Jisung responds with a playful squeeze, a muffled whine of disapproval escaping his lips. His arms tighten around you, cocooning you in warmth and affection, unwilling to let go.
You can’t help but giggle at his stubbornness, your fingers tapping lightly on his biceps in a playful plea for release. Despite your gentle insistence, he remains resolute, his embrace as comforting as it is firm. “Please, just a moment,” you implore, your voice a soothing blend of amusement and persistence. “I promise it’ll only take a second.”
The room seems to hold its breath as you wait for his response, the soft rustle of the sheets and the rhythmic beat of your hearts creating a quiet symphony of intimacy and warmth.
He groans dramatically, his head falling back with a sleepily exaggerated pout that tugs at your heartstrings. Unable to resist, you lean in, capturing his lips in a tender kiss. The moment is soft and fleeting, a quiet affirmation of your affection. However, before the kiss can deepen, an unexpected yelp of surprise pierces the tranquility.
Startled, you both turn to see Chan standing in the doorway, his cheeks flushed a vivid shade of crimson. He stands there, momentarily frozen, as he fumbles with the light switch, the room flooding with sudden brightness. “Sorry,” Chan mumbles, his voice a hesitant whisper. His eyes dart away from the two of you, clearly embarrassed as he steps further inside. “Hannie said I could come in here to grab the cable I need. I didn’t realize you’d be here—I thought he would be at your place.”
With a sheepish nod, Chan dives into the drawers of Jisung’s desk, his movements quick and purposeful as he searches for the elusive cable. Within moments, he triumphantly retrieves it, his gaze flickering back to you and Jisung in an apologetic glance. Bowing awkwardly, Chan’s cheeks remain flushed as he hurries to exit. Jisung, watching the whole scene unfold, can’t suppress a chuckle, the sound rich with amusement. Chan, now thoroughly embarrassed, flicks the lights off with a swift motion before making a hasty exit, his footsteps echoing as he bolts out of the apartment.
“He’s so ridiculous,” Jisung mutters, his voice laced with a blend of amusement and exasperation. He finally loosens his embrace, allowing you to slip away as he sinks back into the plush depths of the bed. His eyes drift shut, heavy with fatigue, leaving the space beside him achingly vacant.
You rise, your movements gentle as you tread softly across the room, the dim light casting a warm glow over the scene. Jisung’s words hang in the air, a tender plea that tugs at your heart. “Hurry up,” he murmurs, his tone a soft blend of longing and affection. “I miss you already.”
The quiet intimacy of his request fills the room, a promise of the warmth and closeness awaiting you as you return to his side.
이용복 ── LEE YONGBOK.
The melody had woven itself into a relentless loop, its notes echoing and intertwining with the fabric of time for the past two hours. Despite the growing monotony of its repetition, your admiration for Yongbok’s unwavering commitment remains undiminished. Each echo of the song was met with his tireless pursuit of perfection, his every move an intricate dance of effort and grace.
As you watched him, your gaze was drawn to the artistry of his movements, which seemed to inch closer to flawless execution with every cycle of the song. Yet, your focus wavered slightly, ensnared by the sight before you. The relentless dance had left Yongbok drenched in perspiration, his thin white tank top clinging to his toned frame as though it were a second skin. His long hair, once neatly styled, now adhered to his neck and forehead in damp tendrils, framing his face with an unrestrained charm.
Under the harsh, bright glare of the overhead lights, Yongbok's sweat caught the illumination, casting a mesmerizing shimmer that made him appear almost ethereal, as if he were a creature of light and shadow dancing beneath a celestial spotlight. The sight of him, glowing with an otherworldly radiance, was enough to pull your thoughts away from the task at hand.
Suddenly, you jolted back to the present, your mind snapping into focus just in time to catch a subtle misstep in Yongbok's otherwise flawless routine. The small error, though minor, stood out against the backdrop of his otherwise meticulous performance, a testament to both his dedication and the endless pursuit of perfection.
With a practiced flick of your thumb, you paused the relentless song. Yongbok, spent and breathless, trudged over to you, each step heavy with fatigue. His once sharp movements were now slower, his chest rising and falling in labored breaths. He reached for his water bottle with a grateful, weary groan, tilting it back to quench his thirst before collapsing onto the floor beside you in a defeated slump.
A sympathetic chuckle escaped your lips as you rose from your spot, now relinquished to the worn patch of ground Yongbok had recently vacated. You adjusted your position, preparing to offer guidance. "Yongbokie," you began, your voice soothing and encouraging, "you’re slowing down the transition between these two moves, which disrupts the rhythm. It’s causing you to fall out of sync with the tempo."
With a patient, guiding touch, you demonstrated the movements, your body moving with the precision you hoped to convey. The graceful flow of your actions contrasted with the slower, labored efforts of Yongbok’s earlier attempts. "If you can manage to execute the transitions a bit faster," you said, illustrating the corrected pace with fluidity, "you’ll stay in perfect harmony with the beats. Let’s try it one more time. You’re so close to getting it just right, I promise."
Though Yongbok huffed in exhaustion, his resolve remained steadfast. He nodded, a spark of determination igniting in his eyes as he pulled himself off the ground to face the challenge once more. You patted his backside affectionately, your smile radiating warmth and encouragement. With a final, reassuring glance, you settled back into your own spot, your hand poised to restart the song and guide him through one more round of practice.
As the challenging segment of the choreography approached once again, a wave of anticipation rippled through the room. This time, as Yongbok executed the intricate moves with newfound precision, a burst of joy erupted from you. The moment he flawlessly completed the sequence, a triumphant cheer escaped your lips, filling the air with infectious excitement.
Yongbok’s face lit up with a radiant grin, his pride palpable as he executed the final steps with flawless grace. The relief was evident in his posture as the last notes of the song drifted into silence. Breathless and spent, he leaned heavily against the choreography’s completion, his body glistening with the sheen of hard-earned sweat.
Without hesitation, you sprang into action, wrapping your arms around him in a jubilant embrace. Despite the stickiness of his sweat-soaked form, your excitement and affection overshadowed any discomfort. Yongbok’s chuckle, light and appreciative, resonated in the space between you. His weight shifted onto you, causing a delighted giggle to bubble from your lips as you wobbled slightly, struggling to maintain your balance.
With a joyful determination, you steadied yourself, ensuring you could support both of you. “That was exactly what I was hoping for, Yongbok! You nailed it perfectly!” you exclaimed, your voice brimming with admiration. The connection between you two, now solidified by the shared triumph, felt both exhilarating and endearing, marking the culmination of a well-deserved moment of celebration.
"Does this mean we’re finished for today?" Yongbok’s voice was laced with a mixture of hope and weariness as he slowly lifted himself off you, his gaze searching for confirmation. His eyes, wide and gleaming with anticipation, met yours with a fervent intensity that made your heart skip a beat.
You laughed softly, a warm sound that mingled with the dim glow of satisfaction in the room. Nodding, you placed a gentle hand on his damp abdomen, the contact reassuring and tender. Yongbok’s tired cheer was a muted echo of his earlier exuberance, a blend of relief and lingering fatigue.
However, the moment was charged with a different kind of energy as Yongbok’s eyes fixed on you with an almost palpable intensity. The depth of his gaze was impossible to ignore, and it made you shift uneasily, feeling a pang of discomfort mixed with longing. You were acutely aware of the electric chemistry between you two, the unspoken tension that lingered just beneath the surface. Though the desire to explore something beyond your professional boundaries was strong, the reality of your roles—idol and choreographer—kept you tethered to the confines of your current relationship.
With a heavy heart, you took a step back, the space between you now marked by a careful, deliberate distance. The flicker of disappointment in Yongbok’s eyes was quick and fleeting, though it did not escape your notice. In an instant, his expression softened, and a shy smile crept onto his lips, a tender acknowledgment of the boundaries you both knew you had to maintain.
"Do you happen to know where the other members should be right now?" Yongbok asked, his voice carrying a note of curiosity as he ambled back towards his water bottle. With a swift motion, he downed the remaining liquid in a single, satisfying gulp, the action accompanied by a soft, relieved sigh.
As Yongbok wiped away the sweat from his brow with the hem of his drenched tank top, the fabric clinging to his form, you couldn't help but be drawn to the sight of his toned, glistening abs. The subtle sheen of perspiration against his skin created an almost mesmerizing glimmer. You inhaled sharply, your breath catching in your throat at the unexpected display.
Embarrassment quickly flush your cheeks and ears with a deep, vibrant crimson. You cleared your throat, the sound a weak attempt to regain composure, and shifted your gaze to the opposite side of the dance room. There, your belongings were scattered haphazardly across the familiar leather couch. You made a beeline for it, desperately seeking refuge from the heat rising in your face.
"I think Chan is in his studio with Changbin and Han, as usual," you managed, your voice wavering slightly as you unplugged your charger and hastily stuffed it into your bag. "But I'm not entirely sure about the rest of the members." As you fumbled with your bag, you recalled a recent conversation. "Wait, Minho mentioned something about going out to eat with I.N, if I remember correctly."
The words stumbled out with an air of nervous distraction, as you tried to steady yourself amidst the lingering flush of embarrassment.
When you turned around, a jolt of surprise raced through you. Yongbok stood so close behind you that you could almost feel the warmth of his breath. His eyes, shimmering with a daring glint, set your heart racing uncontrollably. The intensity of his gaze made your breath hitch and your body tense, an intoxicating wave of anticipation washing over you.
His presence, almost overwhelming in its proximity, brought an unexpected silence between you. Yongbok’s smirk, laden with a hint of arrogance, conveyed a quiet confidence that seemed to pierce right through your defenses. The way he loomed over you, casting a shadow of both authority and allure, was a detail that had always stirred something deep within you. You realized with a start that you were holding your breath, caught in a moment where your unspoken dreams felt tantalizingly close to reality.
As his gaze slid deliberately to your lips, the unspoken possibility of what could happen next seemed to hang in the air. The thrill of breaking boundaries and rules danced at the edge of your consciousness, but the electric current of desire was stronger. Your knuckles turned white as you gripped the strap of your bag tightly, a physical manifestation of the mixture of anxiety and adrenaline coursing through you.
In that charged moment, the consequences of your actions felt distant and inconsequential. The possibility of Yongbok leaning in and shattering the boundaries of professionalism made your thoughts swirl in a haze of longing and exhilaration. You allowed yourself to be consumed by this desire, choosing to embrace the intensity of the moment and deal with any repercussions later. For now, logic faded into the background as you surrendered to the intoxicating allure of what might unfold.
"I, um," Yongbok began, his voice dropping to a hushed murmur that barely cut through the silence of the dance room, which was usually a whirlwind of sound and energy. The room's rare quietude made his words stand out, their subtle weight heavy in the calm.
"I always enjoy these private sessions with you. Even if it’s just for a short while, having you to myself truly becomes one of the highlights of my day." The sincerity in his voice was unexpected, and it struck you with a force that made your heart flutter. As you absorbed the depth of his words, your cheeks warmed, turning a deeper shade of red. The weight of his intention was clear, and it sparked a genuine smile that spread across your face, unable to be contained.
Seeing your reaction, Yongbok’s smirk softened into a tender, almost shy grin. His eyes, previously sharp and intense, now crinkled into crescent moons, their corners adorned with the sparkling constellation of his freckles. The sight was endearing, a stark contrast to the intensity of moments before.
"I also really enjoy these sessions with you," you whispered back, your voice barely more than a breath. You noticed his gaze linger on your lips once more, an unspoken conversation passing between your glances. "You make a pretty good student." The compliment was light but sincere, a playful acknowledgment of the bond you shared in these intimate moments of practice.
The low, rumbling chuckle that emerged from Yongbok's chest had a mesmerizing effect on you, leaving you momentarily dazed. Your gaze drifted slowly to his exquisitely plump lips, each curve and line illuminated by the soft light that bathed the room.
"Yeah?" he teased, his voice carrying a playful challenge. The sound elicited a soft, involuntary giggle from you, a delightful echo of your shared tension. You watched as he inched closer, his presence growing more intoxicating with each passing second. His warm breath, gentle and inviting, fanned across your face in a way that was almost addictive. The sensation sent a shiver racing down your spine, a physical reminder of how close you now were.
In this moment, you were acutely aware that this was the closest you had ever been to him. A silent prayer formed in your mind, hoping that this proximity wouldn’t be a fleeting encounter but the beginning of something more. The air between you crackled with anticipation, making you feel almost intoxicated by the intensity of the moment.
Yongbok paused just before your lips could meet, his gaze locking onto yours with an unexpected intensity. The question that followed was softly spoken, almost reverent in its delivery. "Could I... may I kiss you?" His eyes searched yours for any sign of hesitation or discomfort, but all he found was a mixture of eagerness and affection.
You nodded, your movements almost frantic in their urgency, as if you were desperate to reassure him. "Yes," you whispered, your voice trembling with the whirlwind of emotions that enveloped you. His gaze softened, and with your consent granted, he closed the distance between you.
His lips met yours in a kiss that was both tender and passionately charged, a culmination of all the unspoken desires and longings that had simmered between you. The sensation was electrifying, and you felt your bag slip from your shoulder, landing softly on the floor with a muted thud. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, you pulled him closer, savoring the intimate connection you had yearned for so long.
You barely registered the low, appreciative groan that escaped Yongbok as his arms encircled your waist, pulling you irresistibly closer against him. The sweat and stickiness from hours of rigorous rehearsal faded into insignificance, overshadowed by the profound intimacy of the kiss.
As your lips melded together, the kiss deepened, a powerful exchange that spoke volumes of the years of unspoken longing and desire. Each movement was desperate, as if trying to communicate all the feelings that had been kept hidden for so long. The connection was so intense that you found yourself almost panting with the fervor of it, each breath a testament to the depth of your emotions.
In this sacred moment, you felt as though you were observing yourself from a distance, as if through a veil or a screen. Standing on the tips of your toes, you sought to bridge the remaining space between you, craving more of the warmth and closeness that he offered. The kiss seemed to transcend the physical act itself; it was a vessel for the profound yearning you had harbored throughout your time working together. Every touch, every brush of his lips, was a way to convey just how deeply you had longed for this connection.
To your utter dismay, the cherished moment you had longed for was abruptly shattered by the sharp sound of a scandalized gasp from across the room. The noise jolted you from your reverie, and you instinctively pushed Yongbok away, stumbling backward in a daze. Your eyes widened in shock as you turned to see Hyunjin standing at the entrance of the dance room, his jaw hanging open in astonishment and his eyes wide with disbelief.
Hyunjin’s gaze darted rapidly between you and Yongbok, his expression a mix of confusion and surprise. The air seemed to thicken with tension, each second stretching into what felt like an eternity. You floundered, desperately trying to summon a coherent excuse, but the words seemed to elude you in your state of panic. Yongbok, for his part, wore a deep crimson blush and offered a sheepish smile, clearly as taken aback as you were.
The silence between you was heavy, suffused with the weight of unspoken words and mounting anxiety. Hyunjin, despite his apparent shock, didn’t seem like the type to make a fuss, but the thought of potential consequences gnawed at your gut. The fear of losing the job you had come to cherish so deeply loomed large. Dancing had always been your sole passion, and the opportunity to choreograph for such an incredible group had been a dream come true. The confidence you had felt moments ago evaporated, leaving you trembling and vulnerable, a far cry from the composed professional you had aspired to be.
To your astonishment, a broad, teasing grin spread across Hyunjin’s face, his eyes glinting with mischief as he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. His gaze shifted from you to Yongbok with an air of playful challenge. “Lixie, when did you get so daring?” he drawled, his voice laced with amusement. “I never thought you’d actually go for it.”
The shock of his words made you whirl your head to face Yongbok, who was now blushing deeply, his cheeks a vivid shade of red. He shot Hyunjin a half-hearted glare, his embarrassment palpable. “How long have you two been seeing each other?” Hyunjin continued, his voice rising with mock indignation. “And why haven’t I heard anything about it?”
Leaning casually against the doorframe, Hyunjin crossed his arms over his chest, adopting a playful pout that made the whole situation feel oddly lighthearted despite the tension. His demeanor was almost too casual for the gravity of the moment.
Yongbok, still flushed and clearly flustered, waved his hands in front of him in a frantic gesture. “You haven’t heard anything because you just interrupted our first kiss, you idiot!” The exasperation in his voice was evident, mingled with the lingering blush of his cheeks.
As Hyunjin’s realization dawned upon him, his entire demeanor shifted from playful mischief to genuine remorse. His face flushed with sudden guilt, and he bowed repeatedly, his hurried apologies tumbling out in a rush. With a final, sheepish glance, he bolted from the room with surprising speed, leaving behind a palpable silence.
You stood there, momentarily stunned, your eyes fixed on the spot where Hyunjin had just been. The shock of the interruption lingered, making the stillness around you seem almost tangible. After a few moments, Yongbok cautiously stepped back into your line of sight. He resumed his previous position but with a respectful distance, his gaze searching for any sign of your reaction.
"I'm sorry about that," Yongbok mumbled, his voice tinged with a shy, almost bashful quality. "I may or may not have been crushing on you for quite a while." His confession hung in the air, and you felt a flutter of amusement at his honest admission.
Shaking yourself out of the daze, a soft giggle escaped your lips, breaking the lingering tension. You bent to retrieve the bag you had dropped in the frenzy of the moment, your cheeks still flushed with a persistent blush. "I think it's actually quite cute," you said sincerely, meeting his gaze with warmth. "If it helps, I’ve also had feelings for you for a while. I guess that makes us even."
The smile that bloomed on Yongbok’s face was radiant, transforming his earlier embarrassment into an endearing display of joy. Seeing his expression light up made your heart swell with affection, and your own smile widened in response. The shared understanding between you felt like a promise of something beautiful beginning to unfold.
Finally, as the realization of your earlier intention to leave washed over him, Yongbok reached out with a gentle, reassuring gesture. His hand, warm and steady, closed around the handle of your bag, taking it from your grasp despite the evident confusion that flickered across your face.
With a soft, earnest smile, he met your gaze. "I'd like to walk you home, if you'll allow me," he offered, his voice carrying a tender note of sincerity. The invitation hung in the air, a promise of continued closeness and shared moments, as he stood there, waiting for your response with a hopeful glint in his eyes.
김승민 ── KIM SEUNGMIN.
The heavy, cumbersome bags dug relentlessly into your forearms as you and Seungmin trudged through the labyrinthine corridors leading to his apartment. Each step you took felt like a battle against the relentless weight, the rough straps cutting into your skin. Despite your intimate familiarity with this maze of hallways—so well-known that you could navigate it even with your eyes closed—Seungmin led the way with a quiet confidence.
The silence between you was filled with a subtle, unspoken ease. The only sounds punctuating the stillness were the occasional rustle of plastic and the soft, steady rhythm of your breath. Your panting was light, a testament to the slight strain you felt as you wrestled with the bags' burdens. Seungmin had insisted on carrying every single bag in one go, a decision born from a practical desire to avoid the inconvenience of multiple trips. You could grudgingly acknowledge the wisdom in his suggestion, even as you shot occasional glares at the back of his head, cursing the added effort required.
Despite your murmured complaints, the truth was that Seungmin had taken on the lion's share of the load. His gentlemanly nature had ensured that the majority of the burden fell upon him, leaving you with only a few bags to manage. His consideration was evident, and though you resented the extra strain, you couldn't deny the relief it brought you.
With a deep, grateful sigh, you finally spotted the familiar door that marked the threshold of your boyfriend’s apartment, where he shared his space with his friend Yongbok. The door stood at the end of the hallway, a beacon of familiarity in the dimly lit corridor. As you and Seungmin rounded the final corner, a cacophony of sounds spilled out from within, a vivid reminder of the lively chaos unfolding just beyond the threshold.
Even from this distance, the din was unmistakable. The clamor of laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the occasional burst of playful shouts drifted through the walls, painting a vivid picture of the evening’s revelry. It was a weekly ritual, a cherished tradition among the group: a night dedicated to drinks, games, and movies. The venue for these gatherings rotated among the four apartments, and tonight was Seungmin and Yongbok’s turn to play host.
This familiar routine was the reason for your last-minute excursion, a hurried shopping trip undertaken with Seungmin. The promise of good company and the comforting familiarity of these gatherings made every effort worthwhile, even if it meant bearing the burden of heavy bags and enduring the bustle of a lively home.
As the two of you finally approached your destination, the hallway seemed to stretch out in slow motion. You observed Seungmin with a mixture of anticipation and amusement as he fumbled with his keys, his fingers deftly searching for the right one to unlock the door and liberate you both from the burdensome weight of the grocery bags. Each moment seemed to elongate as he concentrated intently on the task at hand, his brow furrowed in concentration.
A spark of mischief flickered within you, and a playful smirk curved your lips as an impish idea took shape. Seizing the opportunity, you inched closer to him despite the heavy bags you still carried. With a mischievous glint in your eye, you leaned in and gently nipped at his earlobe—an area you knew to be particularly sensitive, a delightful secret you alone had the privilege of knowing.
The effect was immediate and electrifying. Seungmin's task came to an abrupt halt as he shot you a look of mock indignation, though the glint in his eyes betrayed his amusement. You could almost feel the jolt of pleasure radiating through him, and the sight of his reaction filled you with giddy satisfaction. Your smirk widened, thoroughly pleased with the ripple of surprise and delight you'd managed to provoke.
“You’re a brat, you know that, right?” Seungmin’s voice was laced with playful reprimand, but the intense glimmer of desire in his eyes was unmistakable—a fiery spark that you could discern from miles away. An exhilarating surge of adrenaline coursed through your veins, yet you maintained an innocent facade, one you knew perfectly well would drive him to distraction. Teasing him was a delight, particularly because he was so wonderfully easy to provoke.
With a resigned shake of his head, Seungmin decided to forgo engaging further in your tantalizing game. He returned to his task, wrestling with the tangled keys and the cumbersome grocery bags. Despite his frustration, he eventually managed to grasp the elusive key he’d been searching for, his movements a blend of determination and exasperation.
You pouted slightly, trying to ignore the discomfort of the heavy bags digging into your arms as you once again leaned in, eager to continue your playful assault. But before you could take another nip at his ear, you were met with an unexpected turn of events. A startled gasp escaped your lips as Seungmin swiftly maneuvered you against the wall beside the entrance door. The thud of the grocery bags hitting the floor was a distant sound, overshadowed by the deliciously stern gaze Seungmin now directed at you. His eyes, fierce and intense, held you captive in a moment of electrifying silence, leaving you utterly captivated and breathless.
You were unrepentantly shameless in your brattiness whenever Seungmin was near; it was a facet of yourself that you relished, an irresistible indulgence that compelled him to respond with a roughness that only fueled your excitement further. The thrill of this dynamic was too captivating to forgo, and the sight of him now made your knees quiver slightly, though his firm grip on your waist steadied you, his hands pressing down with a force that bordered on painful.
"You're going to need to be on your best behavior once we go inside, pup," he murmured, his voice low and commanding. The warm breath against your ear sent thrilling shivers cascading down your spine, a tangible reminder of his proximity and the intensity of his focus. The sternness of his tone only added to the charged atmosphere between you.
In response to the overwhelming sensation, you let the bags you’d been clutching fall to the floor with a grateful thud, the weight lifting from your arms like a welcome reprieve. You eagerly wrapped your arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer, the warmth of his body merging with yours. A startled gasp escaped you when Seungmin’s teeth suddenly grazed the nape of your neck, his bite both sharp and exhilarating. His gaze, a blend of silent challenge and teasing, held you captive as he pulled back slightly, his eyes gleaming with unspoken promises and the lingering thrill of the moment.
Without a second thought, you leaned in with fervor, capturing his irresistibly warm lips in a heated kiss. Your body pressed eagerly against his, a blend of warmth and excitement fueling your playful exchange. The kiss was both urgent and tender, a passionate dance that seemed to defy time itself.
Yet, just as suddenly as you had initiated the kiss, you broke away, a mischievous glint in your eyes. You pushed him gently, feigning a lighthearted annoyance. "Come on, Min, we have to get inside quickly—I don't want my ice cream to melt," you said, your voice adopting an innocent tone that belied the intense arousal you felt. You moved to retrieve the fallen grocery bags, determined to restore some semblance of normalcy.
However, your attempt to distance yourself was swiftly thwarted. Before you could get very far, Seungmin's hands were firmly on your shoulders, and you found yourself pressed against the wall once more. His eyes, ablaze with a mix of irritation and desire, locked onto yours with an intensity that you found intoxicating.
"No, pup, you started this," he murmured with a gruff edge to his voice. His lips then descended upon your neck, expertly finding that sensitive spot you so loved. His tongue traced and teased with a skill that made you sigh in deep satisfaction. As he lavished attention on your neck, you instinctively wrapped your arms around him again, savoring the thrilling intimacy of the moment.
As you began to rock your hips in a desperate bid for more friction, a sudden distraction interrupted your moment. The front door creaked open, its sound briefly pulling your focus away. Yet, Seungmin remained undeterred, his determination to stir your passions evident in the way he continued to work you up with unrelenting intensity.
You craned your neck, your gaze settling on Minho, who stood at the threshold with an amused snort. His eyes danced with barely concealed laughter as he took in the scene before him. His gaze dropped to the grocery bags strewn haphazardly on the floor, abandoned in the midst of your playful struggle.
"They're back!" Minho's voice rang out, cheerful and slightly teasing. "Our Seungminnie is a bit preoccupied at the moment—busy being his usual doggy self. So if someone could lend me a hand with these bags, I'd appreciate it. I need to get dinner started," he added, his laughter causing his voice to break with a playful edge. With a few deft motions, he gathered several bags and turned to head back inside, leaving you and Seungmin in a bubble of intimate chaos.
Moments later, Chan emerged, his expression one of affectionate amusement as he playfully cooed at Seungmin. With a grin, he took hold of the remaining bags, his presence adding a warm, reassuring energy to the scene. As he followed Minho inside, he closed the door gently behind him, leaving you and Seungmin to resume your private interlude amidst the soft echo of the apartment’s lively ambiance.
A startled moan escaped your lips as Seungmin’s teeth sank into the tender flesh of your neck once more, his bite more forceful and insistent than before. The sensation sent shivers coursing down your spine, a raw mixture of pleasure and surprise.
Seungmin’s voice, though laced with a sarcastic edge, only served to heighten the intensity of the moment. “Thanks for that,” he murmured, his words dripping with mock irritation. Yet, his actions betrayed the playful harshness of his tone. He pulled you impossibly closer, his grip tightening around you with a fervent, possessive energy. The closeness only served to underscore his own arousal, an unspoken testament to the charged atmosphere between you. His body pressed firmly against yours, each movement conveying a depth of desire that matched your own heightened sensations.
양정인 ── YANG JEONGIN.
In the gentle hum of late afternoon, the table in front of you became a tapestry of neatly folded garments, each piece meticulously arranged. The clothes, a delicate mix of your own and Jeongin's, formed soft, colorful mounds, their textures inviting a closer look. You worked silently, your fingers deftly handling the final batch of freshly dried laundry that Jeongin had just brought in. The room was filled with a tranquil rhythm, punctuated only by the soft rustling of fabric and the occasional sigh of contentment.
Jeongin's presence was like a warm breeze, a comforting whisper against the backdrop of domesticity. He slipped into the space beside you with effortless grace, his lips pressing a gentle, affectionate kiss to your cheek. It was a sweet, fleeting gesture that spoke of deep affection, a moment of intimacy amidst the mundane task of folding clothes.
This was the first time you had woven your lives together in such a simple, yet profoundly meaningful way. The day had unfolded with a natural ease, as though you both were actors playing out a scene from a well-loved script. The apartment, once a chaotic landscape of disarray, now felt like a canvas being painted with the colors of shared domesticity.
Jeongin had seized the opportunity of his day off to tackle the untidy corners of his home, a task he had long postponed. Yet, in his desire to make the most of the day, he found himself yearning for your company. You had offered to assist with the chores, with the playful condition that you would also tend to your own laundry in his space. The agreement was made with a lighthearted chuckle, an unspoken promise of more moments like this—simple, joyful, and richly woven with the threads of companionship.
From the edges of your vision, you caught the sight of his dimples making a gentle appearance, etched into his cheeks like sweet indentations. They were the result of the tender smile that danced upon his lips, a subtle curve that spoke of warmth and quiet joy. Drawn to the softness of his expression, you turned to face him fully, your own smile beginning to bloom, pulling at the corners of your mouth with a playful grace.
“What has you so delightfully smiley?” you inquired, your voice tinged with a teasing lilt that fluttered through the air. His response came as a light-hearted chuckle, a sound as soft as a whispering breeze, accompanied by a modest shrug that seemed to carry the weight of his contentment. Seeking to coax more from him, you nudged his arm gently with your elbow, a tender gesture meant to elicit a deeper revelation.
“I don’t know,” he replied, his voice a soft murmur, the smile remaining steadfast and sincere. “I usually find chores like this a bit of a drudge, but today has been different. It’s been so lovely to do this with you.” His heartfelt confession unfurled in the quiet space between you, causing your heart to swell with a warm, affectionate glow. The earnestness in his eyes and the simplicity of his words stirred something deep within you, and a soft, melodic giggle escaped your lips, blending with the gentle rhythm of your shared moment.
In truth, the tapestry of your relationship was still being woven, with threads of time only recently beginning to intertwine. The two of you had yet to travel far from the fresh, unblemished shores of early romance. The incessant fluttering of your hearts, a constant and delicate dance, was a telltale sign that you were still immersed in the radiant bubble of your honeymoon phase. Each shared glance, every fleeting touch, seemed imbued with an ineffable sweetness that colored the world with a softer hue.
In these tender moments, such as folding each other’s clothes, the act felt imbued with a quiet sanctity. What might seem like mundane tasks in the eyes of the world were transformed into sacred rituals between you. Each folded garment was more than just fabric; it was a silent promise, a whispered vow of a future enriched with even more tenderness and intimacy. The simplicity of these acts became a testament to the budding depth of your connection, a gentle assurance that these early days were but the beginning of a beautifully unfolding story.
As you folded the final pair of Jeongin's socks, the rhythmic motion of your hands was accompanied by a contented sigh. Leaning against the table, you turned to face him, your gaze meeting his with an unspoken connection. Moments later, he completed the task of hanging the last of your tops onto a hanger—a humble relic from your own home—his movements graceful and deliberate.
He turned to you, his face illuminated by the same dimpled smile that had captured your heart so effortlessly. “I think this means we’re done cleaning,” you said, a note of cheerful satisfaction in your voice. Jeongin's nod of agreement mirrored your own contentment, his eyes twinkling with shared joy. “How about we watch a movie now? I could make us some popcorn,” you suggested, your voice carrying a hopeful lilt.
As you spoke, you couldn’t help but notice the dreamy expression on his face. It was as though he were enchanted by the sight of you, his gaze filled with a deep, almost reverent adoration. Despite his usual aversion to physical contact, Jeongin’s arms, strong and reassuring, encircled you with a surprising tenderness. The embrace was warm and enveloping, your arms gently pinned between your bodies. Laughter bubbled up, filling the cozy confines of the laundry room with a light, melodious sound.
He looked down at you, his eyes shimmering with an affectionate gleam, his smile broad and adorably sincere. In that moment, you felt yourself melting into the safety of his embrace, a profound sense of belonging washing over you. The world outside seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you, wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and joy.
The world around you seemed to dissolve into a serene stillness, each moment stretching languorously as you lost yourself in the profound warmth of his eyes. Their depths seemed to draw you in, a captivating ocean of affection and sincerity. Your fingers, almost unconsciously, traced the delicate chain resting against his chest, their movements a gentle counterpoint to the intensity of his gaze.
In the midst of this tranquil exchange, you were not the least bit surprised when his soft, tender lips met yours in a kiss that was both gentle and deeply heartfelt. The touch was a whisper of warmth and intimacy, a silent promise that spoke volumes. You returned his kiss with equal fervor, your lips melding with his in a dance of shared emotion.
Despite the familiarity of the gesture, the effect on you was anything but ordinary. Your heart, ever so responsive, performed an elegant pirouette within your chest, fluttering with a rhythm that felt both exhilarating and soothing. It was as though each kiss with Jeongin carried a unique magic, a spellbinding effect that rendered each encounter as thrilling as the first. His presence seemed to ignite a vibrant, ineffable energy within you, making even the simplest of moments feel profoundly significant.
As the kiss deepened, its tender embrace seemed to hold time in suspension. Yet, the tranquility of the moment was abruptly interrupted by a voice that sliced through the intimacy like a sudden breeze. "Oh, well I guess not," Seungmin mumbled to himself, his voice laced with bemused resignation as he turned to make his exit.
Before Seungmin could disappear from view, Jeongin’s voice rang out, a note of curiosity threading through his words. “Hey! You guess not what?” Seungmin’s head poked back into the laundry room, his face a mask of nonchalance. He offered a brief, impassive nod in your direction as a greeting, his eyes flickering between you and Jeongin.
"I just wanted to see if you wanted to go out to eat," Seungmin explained, his tone casual yet inviting. "Channie told me you'd be here. If Y/N wants to join, it’s on me." The offer was accompanied by a small, friendly smile, a gesture of genuine camaraderie.
You returned his smile, your eyes drifting up to meet Jeongin’s as you awaited his response. The two of you exchanged a glance, a silent dialogue unfolding in the brief, wordless moments. Jeongin’s eyes held a spark of consideration, his gaze reflecting the warmth of shared understanding. After a heartbeat of contemplation, he turned back to Seungmin with a decisive nod. "Yeah, we’ll go."
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